Ink On Paper
by mountain ash
Summary: The students at Hogwarts are being forced to write to another student in a different house, and have no idea who they are writing to. Guess who gets paired up with Hermione? And so ensues the story of how the two overcame their prejudices. Dramione!
1. frosty january

**Disclaimer:** If you recognize it, I don't own it.

It was one of those days where there was no rain, but the sky sure looked like it would all day long. Big, dark, ink stains of clouds hung in the sky above Hogwarts castle. Wind teased the students' hair, blowing it in front of their face, tangling it hopelessly. The air seemed as if it were hovering over a frozen lake-it was frigid cold, and that cold seemed to permeate from the rock-hard, ground, still highlighted with frost. It was the mid-January, and while Hogwarts had received a break from the heavy snow it had been getting, the air was still cold.

A lone figure, decked out in one of those big, snug coats that just react past your knees, the bottom hem of the coat writhing about in the wind, hurried towards the doors to the school.

Hermione Granger had woken up this morning, looked out her window, and seen that enough of the snow was finally gone that she could take a morning walk. On this little jaunt of hers, she had quickly lost track of time. But if she hurried, she could still make it to class with a minute to spare.

Breathing hard, producing puffs of clouds that hung in the air in front of her face, she hustled up the stairs and breezed into Transfiguration.

She sat down; catching her breath, looking around to see which house her and the other Gryffindors would be sharing the lesson. Apparently, they would be sharing with Ravenclaw. A nice bunch-Hermione smiled to herself.

Professor McGonagall entered the classroom seconds before the start of class, and sat down, quieting the students.

The lesson that day was on transforming snakes into rope- an "easy lesson" as McGonagall put it. (Some Gryffindor students were a little overzealous in their attempts, stopping just short of harming the snake. Gryffindor-Slytherin rivalry was still alive and well). It was slightly challenging, (though not for Hermione), but easy enough that everyone could do it, even Neville.

It was the perfect lesson.

Until the last ten minutes.

Five minutes until the end of class, and Professor McGonagall called for the student's attention.

"I have an announcement. The school has decided on a new project that they wish the students to carry out."

The students in question groaned in unison. This was about "inter-house loyalty" and "the end of rivalry between houses"-basically, the goal that all of the teachers worked for, but knew was not a probability.

"Students, students! That will be enough. Now. The school has decided that the main cause of hostilities between houses is a lack of communication."

At this the children snickered. Every week the school came up with another "main cause" for the rivalries every week. The main cause last week had been "Unfamiliarity." The week before that had been "differences in opinion about Quidditch." Many theories such as those had been tried, but within seven days were discarded. With each new "main cause" they came up with a project for the students to do that would supposedly help end the house rivalries. Most of these projects were dropped after a week when a new "main cause" was thought up, though some of them remained in practice. As of last month, there was one day of the week set aside for enforced mingling in the Great Hall at lunch. Students would be required to sit somewhere different, away from people they normally sat next to. Teachers were forced to circle like vultures, each with a clipboard, making sure that no one broke the rules. It was hard to say who hated the arrangement more-the students or the teachers.

Another such torment for the student body was Quidditch Discussion. Once a week, usually on the same day as the great Mix-It-Up lunch, the students were forced into groups of four, one student per house to a group. They were then supposed to talk about Quidditch. More often than not, less than ten words were said, and the four students ignored each other. Sometimes fights broke out. Sometimes friends were put together and the two whispered to each other, making the others in their group feel left out. Sometimes the students talked about something completely unrelated to Quidditch, usually when four girls were put together and there was something to gossip about. One way or another, everyone had yet to actually discuss Quidditch.

The students in Professor McGonagall's classroom awaited this week's new ordeal, and hoped that it wouldn't be added to their week permanently.

"It has been decided that you will all be assigned pen pals with someone in another house."

The students practically jumped for joy. Pen pals! Basically, writing to someone! That was something they could do for about a week, get away with writing barely anything, and by the end of the week just drop it! Even if the teachers did declare that this exercise was to continue, they could quit if they wanted to-teachers had never been successful at tracking every letter that moved throughout the school.

"I would like you to come to the front please. You will be receiving your assignments."

Students filed up to McGonagall's desk, expecting a piece of paper with their pen pal's name on it, and maybe instructions. But there was no paper on the professor's desk. Instead, there was cage upon cage of owls resting on the carpet behind her desk, stacked three high.

"You will be sending your letters via the owl you are given here-no, you may not use your own. No, you will not know your pen pal."

The students immediately began protesting. Loudly. The owls cringed in their cages, hooting indignantly, disturbed by the sudden burst of noise.

It took several minutes for McGonagall to regain the attention of her pupils.

"Yes, there is a reason that you will not know your pen pals. The school has decided that main reason for the rivalry is lack of communication, and so they actually want you to communicate. This, believe it or not, is not likely to happen when you hate the person you are supposed to be communicating _with_. If you don't know who you are speaking to, you are more likely to be civil. Also, you are not allowed to tell them who you are, or what house you are in. Your owls will be trained to go to the person you are writing when they are alone. You will get your letters from your partner's owl."

The way she said "the school" made it clear that she was one of the growing number of teachers who had long ago come to terms with the fact that they were wasting their time trying to force the houses together. She delivered this message with a bit of a sigh, and a bit of a 'can you believe what they've came up with now?' tone to her voice.

Still grumbling (this is so dumb, I can't believe their acting like this, why can't we know who we're writing to?), the students shuffled forward to the front of the room to receive their owls. Hermione's was a beautiful barn owl. It had a distinctive heart-shaped face, a snow-white belly, and wings of mottled gold, golden-brown, white, and blue-black. Hermione decided to call her Syra.

That night, Hermione penned her first letter by candle light. She was using a fountain pen with light green ink. She could use her quill, but for letters she preferred this pen. She had had it since her first day of first grade.

She began to write out _dear,_ only to remember that she had no idea who she was addressing. She quickly caught herself, and changed her beginning.

_Hello._

_Do you think this will be one of those exercises that we have to keep up for more than a week? I hope not._

It was a rather negative opening, but she didn't know how else to begin. She couldn't ask how he or she was feeling-she didn't even know their name. Besides, whoever it was, they most likely agreed with her.

Now for the questions. Maybe, with enough of these, she could find out who her partner in this exercise was.

_What is your favorite color? What is your favorite flower? What season is your favorite? What is your favorite book? Who is your favorite author? What did you name your owl?_

Hermione frowned a little. These were rather generic questions. She needed to put more thought into these questions.

_What is your favorite poem? Why? _

_I can't decide on one favorite poem, but I like 'Macbeth', by Shakespeare. It's not technically poetry, but it is written like poetry. _

_What is your favorite thing to do in the snow? _

_I like to build forts, complete with snowball weaponry, a wall, and as many other details as possible. I make snowmen soldiers to go with it. I also love to make unique snowmen. There is this series of comic books called 'Calvin and Hobbs' (Muggle) that I got the idea from- one of the main characters never makes a normal snowman. I always loved looking at his misshapen creations._

Hermione's hand halted on the page. What else could she write to someone she didn't know?

_Do you have any siblings? If so, do they have any annoying habits? I have a little sister who, after a shower, always wrings out her hair on the floor. Sometimes water gets on the wood floor at the top of the stairs._

_Do you like kiwi?_

Hermione tapped her pen against her paper. She didn't know what else to say.

_Bye!_

_Your pen pal or what ever it is you want to call me._

She hurriedly shoved the letter into an envelope, and tied it to her assigned owl's leg, and sent it off to whomever it was to be sent to.

Her owl flew off into the night, and disappeared behind one of the towers.

**Please Review!**


	2. Paper in Fire

**Disclaimer: If you recognize it, I don't own it.**

Draco Malfoy sat on his bed in the Slytherin boys' dormitories, trying to write a letter, and failing. It was just too hard to write to someone when you didn't even know who they were, what house they were in, how old they were, or even if they were girl or boy! It was ridiculous! He shouldn't have to do this!

Seething, he ripped the parchment containing a grand total of three sentences and tore it to shreds like broken sea shells and tossed them into the fire, where they blackened and withered, and went crinkly like crisp autumn leaves that had crunched under his feet three months ago.

His silent tantrum was interrupted when he realized he was not alone. A barn owl had appeared on his bedpost, a letter dangling from its talons. How did an owl get in here? It would have had to give a password to the portrait, and he was fairly sure owls couldn't speak. Besides that, it would have had to open the door to get into the dormitory, another think he was fairly sure owls couldn't do.

His attention turned to the letter tied to its leg. Draco quickly untangled the string, and freed the letter. With a soft hoot, the owl took off.

That was odd. Normal owls would have waited for a return letter.

Ahh, that was from his pen pal that he didn't even know. He would have to send his owl with a return letter after he read this.

Of course he had to get a partner who immediately got to work on the assignment, no matter what it was. Sighing, he slit the envelope and removed the letter.

_Hello._

_Do you think this will be one of those exercises that we have to keep up for more than a week? I hope not._

_What is your favorite color? What is your favorite flower? What season is your favorite? What is your favorite book? Who is your favorite author? What did you name your owl? What is your favorite poem? Why? I can't decide on one favorite poem, but I like 'Macbeth', by Shakespeare. It's not technically poetry, but it is written like poetry. What is your favorite thing to do in the snow? I like to build forts, complete with snowball weaponry, a wall, and as many other details as possible. I make snowmen soldiers to go with it. I also love to make unique snowmen. There is this series of comic books called 'Calvin and Hobbs' (Muggle) that I got the idea from- one of the main characters never makes a normal snowman. I always loved looking at his misshapen creations. Do you have any siblings? If so, do they have any annoying habits? I have a little sister who, after a shower, always wrings out her hair on the floor. Sometimes water gets on the wood floor at the top of the stairs. Do you like kiwi? _

_Bye!_

_Your pen pal or what ever it is you want to call me._

Draco glared at the piece of paper, the words flowing into each other in pretty green ink like ivy. Well, at least it gave him somewhere to start. There were so many questions here, as though whoever it was actually wanted to know who he was.

Snatching a quill pen, he began his letter again, getting much farther now that he had somewhere to start.

_Hello._

_As much as I wish I could say otherwise, I do believe this will be one of those exercises that they will extend beyond this week._

_My favorite color is no concern of yours, though if you must know it is green. I don't waist my time gazing at flowers. That's what house elves are for-planting and maintaining the garden along with everything else so that your yard is beautiful. So I'd say my favorite flower is yellow-or-white ones that turn up in the spring. My favorite season is summer, obviously, because I get to do anything I want in those three months. I don't see how it matters that you know my favorite book or my favorite author. My owl is named Owen because I'm not feeling particularity imaginative when I named him. Poetry is the product of lazy good-for-nothing people who write whatever comes to their mind then expect people to read more into it than there really is. My favorite poem is a blank sheet of paper. I do not waist my time frolicking in the snow when I could be inside, warm, and doing something worthy of my precious time. No, I don't have any siblings. 'Do you like kiwi' is the stupidest question I have ever heard. Who cares? _

He had answered all of the questions. He could just send it now, of course, and be done with it, but he felt he needed to contribute something. Besides, He needed to ask _some_ questions, or else this pen pal of his would know too much about him and Draco would know nothing in return.

Problem was, he couldn't think of any good questions.

Sighing, he rose from the side of his bed and headed out into the halls for a walk. Walks helped him clear his head and he could use some inspiration as for what to add in his letter. He stuffed the paper in his robe pocket and headed for the door.

As he walked through the Common Room, the conversations of the first and second years stopped, and a hush fell over the room like one of those thick, overly-warm, smothering blankets that are usually a shade of red-brown.

Draco was used to this. The younger kids always reacted like this to him. Why wouldn't they? Their first impression of him was always the same. Draco strutting down the halls with an aura of power, a smirk on his face, as he searched for someone to torture-this was always their first image, and the image that would always spring to their minds when they thought the name Draco Malfoy.

He exited out into the hallways, and heard the murmur of conversation start up again. It was to be expected.

He headed down the hallways, walking briskly along. It was a beautiful Sunday morning, and he had no classes today. He had no real destination-he just let his feet carry him in whichever direction they cared to go. He walked through the halls, and as he did looked out the windows. Snow danced down out of the clouds, gathering on the window sills the way spilled glitter gathers on the floor.

His feet carried him to the owlery. This was not uncommon. He liked to sit here, in the musty, open room. No one ever came here except with letters-he could be alone. There were windows everywhere-he could always look out over the grounds, and the lake, and the forest beyond. Though that was rarely what he used the windows for. He usually sat near the windows with his face turned skyward. This way, he could see the sky.

Weather is something most people only care about because of how it will affect their day. Draco liked to watch the weather simply because it was unpredictable. Some days it would be sunny and clear, and other days the sun would hide behind an impenetrable stone wall of clouds. Sometimes light, fluffy clouds drifted on light breezes, and other times inky, heavy clouds would loom in the sky like a threat. Sometimes lightning illuminated the sky and thunder banged. Wind could pick up and die down. The face of the sky was eternally changing emotions. It could rage, smile, even cry. Sometimes it cried rain, sometimes snow, sometimes hail or sleet.

Unpredictability-Draco loved that. And, he would never admit it to anyone else- maybe he loved this unpredictability because his life was the opposite.

The hooting of the owls here was soothing, constant, and familiar. Sometimes, especially when he was younger, that soft hooting would lull him to sleep. He remembered those particular naps. They were so peaceful, full of sweet dreams.

Draco pulled the now-crumpled letter from his pocket, and summoned a quill with his wand.

_Do you look at the sky a lot? I do. I always do. I like to know what emotion the sky is showing at any given point in time. Is it happy and sunny? Or angry and thundering? It never fails to fascinate me. _

_What is it like in your House? How do younger years react to you? What kind of jokes do people tell and pull on each other? How do you celebrate after you win a Quidditch game? What is it like? You don't have to tell me. I just sometimes wonder. _

_What did _you_ name _your_ owl?_

_What is your favorite place to be? Once again, you don't have to tell me, it makes no difference if I do or don't know. Once again, I just wonder. Do people pick their favorite places in similar ways? It seems a little unlikely, seeing as there is a wide variety of favorite places, each different, but what if each was picked for a similar reason? What if our special places are all places where we feel safe? Pardon me. I shouldn't ramble on._

_Sincerely, _

_Pen Pal._

Draco stared at his letter. All the requirements were filled. He had contributed information and questions, and his letter didn't reveal anything he didn't want it to reveal. Okay, maybe he had shown some vulnerability at the end, but not enough to ruin anything.

Draco trudged back to the Slytherin dormitory to send his letter. Once again as he passed through the Common Room conversation ceased. There was that hush again-the admiration and fear that Draco Malfoy inspired in all.

He found his owl waiting for him on his bed. Draco gave him the letter and sent him off without a backward glance.

He was powerful. It didn't matter to him who received his letter-this whole exercise could be over in a week.

He awaited a return letter patiently, as though he had all the time in the world.

**Please Review!**


	3. Ink and Water

**Disclaimer: If you recognize it, I don't own it.**

Hermione sat in the Great Hall with Harry, talking over eggs, cinnamon rolls and orange juice. They both noted Ron's absence, but neither wanted to talk about it. And what was there to talk about, anyway? They both knew what happened.

It had been yesterday, at Quidditch practice. It had been another day cold enough to freeze tears on your face, though once again without snow. The Griffendors had just been finishing up, and were walking off the field to go to the warm showers. Ron had been with Harry, the two of them talking about who knows what-Hermione couldn't hear them from where she was. She had been waiting for them at the doorway to Hogwarts, and so had had a perfect view of everything that happened.

Malfoy had appeared not far from Ron and Harry, Crabb and Goyle on either side of him. He had said something to the two boys. Harry had kept his cool, and retorted smoothly to Malfoy. Ron, on the other hand, had bent down, picked up a rock, and threw it at Malfoy. He had missed in his haste, and hit Goyle square in the nose instead. Goyle's hands had flown to his nose, which now had blood streaming from it like tears, then began to freeze on his face.

Harry, to his credit, had immediately snatched Ron's wand, and promptly told Ron he was crazy, and that that had been a stupid thing to do.

Malfoy and his entourage had left the scene pretty quickly to get Goyle to Madam Promfrey, and to get Ron in trouble.

At this very moment Ron was in Professor McGonagall's office, carrying out his detention.

Hermione and Harry, in an effort to side-step the topic of Ron, were discussing their pen pals.

"I sent my letter two days ago, and I haven't gotten a response."

"Hermione, think about it. If you sent it two days ago, then that person would probably have gotten it yesterday. Even if they _had_ immediately dropped whatever they were doing and replied to you, you wouldn't have a chance of getting it until today."

"Yes, well, I still get the feeling it should be here by now."

"I think that that is you being worried, and anxious to get that letter, not you thinking it should be here already."

Hermione had to concede-Harry was probably right.

At that moment two owls swooped low, one a reddish-brown, rather small owl that looked like a wilting rose towards Harry and a dark thunder cloud grey, big and rather fat owl towards Hermione. Each was unfamiliar, and each held a letter.

"Well, now we know what our pen pal's owls look like." Said Hermione, half to herself.

She reached out and took the letter from this obviously over-fed owl, then tore open the envelope and cast it aside like a twig caught in her hair.

Hastily, she unfolded the piece of paper inside, and began to read it in a similar way to the way in which she read a new book that she had been waiting for that had just been published.

Her face, which had been smiling when she had first begun to read, slowly slipped into a frown. It seemed her pen pal was a little snobbish. But whoever they were, they did have some good opinions, especially at the end. Their questions had been so much better than hers. Come to think of it, there had been no grammatical errors, either, or misspellings. Maybe her pen pal was in Ravenclaw. They were obviously smart.

The same could not be said for Harry. He was having a difficult time reading his-apparently every other word was misspelled, half of it was in capital letters, there were exclamation points after every sentence, and whoever it was had failed to ever capitalize "I." And, if that wasn't bad enough, whoever it was had handwriting that was beyond messy-it was impossible.

But when Harry had tried to hand it to Hermione, something strange happened. As soon as Hermione's fingers closed like a cage around the piece of paper, Harry's owl had swooped down out of nowhere and snatched the letter from Hermione's grasp, and given it right back to Harry.

Both of them were shocked. They had never seen an owl do that before.

"So it happened to you guys, too."

Harry and Hermione turned to see the twins, both carrying letters.

"It's been happening to everyone. It's like these owls were trained not to let anyone but their owner read the letters. No doubt it was the school's idea, to keep everyone from reading each other's letters. They don't want us to help each other figure out who their pen pal is." Fred said with a slight chuckle.

"Yeah, but that is a little against what they want to happen, isn't it? Helping each other with common problems? But that would ruin their little exercise." Laughed George. "Anyway, this little idea of theirs is going south quick. Those owls are sharp! There's one poor bloke over at the Hufflefuff table that fainted-his owl appearing like that, swooping down on him like he was some poor little mouse-kid just fell over, chair and all, bumping the table. There's food all over the floor."

The twins snickered at this.

"And it doesn't do much good anyhow-some people are reading theirs aloud and there is nothing the owls can do to stop that."

The twins laughed, looking up at the teacher's table. No one looked very happy. And who could blame them? What was more taxing then watching your ideas crash and burn first thing in the morning?

"Well, Harry, read yours aloud!" Hermione suggested. The twins, who had been walking away, immediately came back to listen.

Harry began to read, haltingly, his expression a bit muddled as he tried to make out what his partner was trying to say.

"HI! You are _**SO GOOD **_at writing letters; you used words I didn't even know! YOUR OWL IS SO CUTE, WHAT DID YOU NAME HIM? What is your opinion- does pink go better with purple or blue? I woke up this morning and realized that I DIDN'T KNOW! OMG, did you read the horoscopes this morning? Mine said I was going to go to lots of parties and go on a shopping spree, but I don't see how that's possible-we're not going to Hogsmeade until next month? But how could my horoscope be wrong! I'M JUST SO CONFUSED! What do you think? BYE! WRITE SOON! I DON'T LIKE WAITING! But don't make it too long, either, because I don't like reading."

The twins were rolling on the floor, laughing. Harry was frowning, and Hermione was holding back giggles.

"Sorry, Harry. I think it's safe to say you have a girl for a Partner, and not a very mature one."

Harry grumbled something about the unfairness of the universe.

Hermione looked at her own letter. Whoever wrote this was waiting for a reply. She had better go get one. She got up from the table, taking her bag with her. She had some time before classes started.

She headed towards the lake that she had crossed as a first year. It was a peaceful place, and no one would be there on such a cold day.

Hermione shook her head. If people actually read everything they were supposed to, they would know the charms you could use to warm small areas for a period of time-her sit by the waters would feel like a sunny summer afternoon, not an icy winter morning.

She walked through the halls at brisk pace, robes swirling around her feet as though buffeted by a breeze.

She sat at the base of a small tree that had been planted on the shore, but just barely. Its roots even touched the water in some places. tiny fishes swan around those roots, and somtimes frogs sat on them like kings on a throne, surveying their lake kingdom, before spoting something and leaping into the water, disappearing with a ripple. There were fewer birds around this particular lake then near most, but those that were there were singing, their voices echoing off the water, creating a sound like wind chimes. Hermione stared out at the water, just listening.

After some time staring at the water like this, she pulled the letter from her bag. After reading it over again, she pulled out a spare sheet of paper and her green fountain pen from her bag.

_Hello._

_I don't really look at the sky a lot, though sometimes I do look up sometimes when it's snowing or raining-I love to feel the rain on my face. It's like my face is being caressed by the sky. And sometimes when there is a thunder storm at night I look out at the sky to see the lighting and hear the thunder. But on the whole, I don't usually look at the sky. I will try to do so mire often._

_My house is like a home, but with more siblings and no parents. The younger kids are welcomed, and given tours. Everyone has an older sibling in their house, or is friends with someone who does, or is friends with someone who is friends with someone who does. Anyway, there is always someone for them to go to with question. Also, we sometimes can't help our selves, and show off a little. We do things like make faces appear in the fire, or summon pumpkin juice. As for jokes, our jokes are usually based on recent events. For instance, if something went humorously wrong in Professor Flitwicks's class, we joke about that. We also tend to make jokes about Professor Snape-He is just so bat-like, and I think he has yet to wash his hair for the first time. Some of the jokes we play on each other are usually played by two friends of mine-they love to enchant sweets to do things, like make you vomit or give you a nose bleed, or vastly increase the size of your tongue. They sell their stuff, so we usually use their things to play pranks. When we win a Quidditch, we throw an unnecessarily large, loud, wild party that lasts almost all night long. Put a bunch of hipped-up kids, butterbeer, a lot of sugary food, charms used for entertainment, and an excuse to party together, and you can imagine the result. _

_I named my owl Syra. It just seemed to suit her._

_My favorite place is a park near my house. It has a beautiful lake, sports fields, a play ground, hiking trails, a track, even a sledding hill. There is a little gazebo near the lake where my friends and I would go almost every day in the summer. We would play card games, or mancala-I'm not sure if you know the game-it is a strategy game, and is thought to be one of the oldest games in the world. You are right-I always feel safe there. It is so peaceful, and the calls of the red-winged blackbirds, ducks, chickadees, robins, and wrens lull me into a sense of security. The reeds, the water, the birds, the small trees, and the open sky-it's just so peaceful._

_What is your favorite candy? _

_What is your favorite song? Who is your favorite musician? What kind of music do you like? Do you play an instrument? _

_The flowers, 'yellow-or-white ones that turn up in the spring' are daffodils, I believe. I agree that they are beautiful, but I prefer irises. They are so soft-looking, and bright, like they've been painted into the landscape. By the way-don't talk about house elves that way! They have feelings too, and ideas, and opinions-they deserve more respect. _

_What is your house like? _

_This letter is getting a bit long, so I should probably wrap it up. _

_Bye!_

_Pen Pal._

_P.S.-'do you like kiwi' is too a legitimate question. I want to know._

Hermione read over her letter, checking it for mistakes. She found none.

She gave her letter one last look. The kiwi green ink from her fountain pen flowed like water. The last line was a little bit smeared, giving it a bit of a liquid look. She pulled an envelope out of her bag, slipping her words into it like she was hiding them, and then licked it to seal it.

She didn't even have to look for Syra-eerily, she had appeared while Hermione was penning her letter. She sat perched in the tree Hermione had rested her back against, silent as the grave, awaiting her delivery. Hermione frowned-that was a little weird. Since sending her letter, she hadn't seen Syra, and then she reappeared right when Hermione needed her. That was undeniably odd.

With a shrug of her shoulders, she gave Syra her letter. The owl instantly took off, disappearing behind a tower just as she had the first time Hermione had given her a letter to deliver.

Hermione glanced at her watch, and jumped. She had only ten minutes to get to class. She leapt up from where she sat, and jogged away from her peaceful lake, one that reminded her so much of the lake back at the pond back home.

She disappeared from view through the heavy front doors that loomed like a granite cliff above a harbor.


	4. Inky Ivy

**Disclaimer: If you recognize it, I don't own it.**

Hospitals of any kind are a horrible place to be.

People there are hurt, look helpless, and always seem to be tired. Visitors are rarely animated. All in all a very sober place.

It was in this place that Draco Malfoy sat, mind wandering and continuing a conversation with Crabb and Goyle. Yes, these two things could be done simultaneously. Goyle and Crabb's topics of conversation were predictable and ideas and opinions held little depth.

Goyle was sitting up in bed, his nose bandaged, increasing its size. It looked for the entire world like a child's little snowball. The blood that had been frozen to his face like frozen lava was now gone, thanks to Madam Promfrey. Instead it was replaced with a streak of mud-brown chocolate.

"This really isn't that bad. I get to lay here, sleep in, skip classes, and I get all this chocolate." Goyle stared at a lump of chocolate in his had like it was a lump of gold.

"Yeah, I envy you there. Man, that chocolate looks good-could I have some?"

"No, it's mine!"

"But want it!"

"Well you're not getting' it!"

"GIMME THAT!"

Draco rolled his eyes as the two goons began their skirmish over that little brown lump. It was so dark it looked more like coal than chocolate to Draco.

"You morons do know that you're only getting chocolate because it keeps you in line and because, obviously, has medicine in it that Madam Promfrey doesn't want spat back in her face when she gives it to you."

"But, it's chocolate!" The two chorused, dumbfounded that their friend might find fault with the sweet candy.

"Yes, I _know_ it's chocolate. But you don't even know what kind medicine she put in it. Come to think of it, can't Madam Promfrey just do something with her wand and heal the break?"

"Yeah, but I don't want to go back to classes and give up the chocolate until I have to. I told her I tried to take medicine before coming here, but that it hadn't seemed to work. She asked what medicine I had taken, and I said I didn't know, I can't read. She has to give me some medicine to make the other medicine go away." Goyle looked smug, undoubtedly proud of his cleverness, not noticing that he had admitted that he couldn't read, and showed in his plan that he obviously lacked the foresight to realize that he would grow bored, and want to leave eventually. Draco didn't know why he dealt with these idiots.

He didn't want to stay on this topic of conversation-it only served to show him how dense his companions were. He did not enjoy thinking about this. If course he had other friends with more brains, friends that were better suited for conversation. It just happened that he had to be here long enough to keep Goyle happy.

"Hey, I wonder what Weasley's punishment was. You should have seen Professor Snape dragging the weasel down the hall screaming 'two hundred points from Gryffindor! like a made man'-He looked like he was going to personally hamstring him."

"Yeah, but his face was funnier when he found out Professor McGonagall was punishing them-he looked like he was having a heart attack!" Crabb joined in.

Draco was starting to wander if it was possible to drop dead of boredom when Madam Promfrey saved him. Apparently, visiting time was over. It took all of Draco's self control not to bolt out the door as fast as he could.

Once the heavy, ornate doors of the hospital wing were behind him, Draco slowed his pace a little, and told Crabb that he needed to study. This was not entirely true, but it was a tried and true method to get Crabb to leave you alone for a good chunk of time. (Crabb had once tried to study with Draco, and would never do so again. Draco was by far the more intelligent one, had willingly studied for over two hours. Crabb had cracked after only five minutes. It didn't help that he was reading at a preschool level.)

Now alone in the halls, Draco headed for the Great Hall for dinner. Looking out the windows, he could see the sunset painting the clouds like iris petals, making them look as though they could tumble down from the sky at any moment. It had been a nondescript day in terms of weather-once again cold, with scattered clouds fingerprinting three fourths of the sky.

As he approached a bend in the corridor, an owl surprised him. It had flown around that blind corner-there was no way the two could have avoided the collision that ensued.

Picking himself up off the floor, Draco cursed that bloody owl. The owl, for its part, shook itself a bit, then took flight once more, though it only rose far enough that Draco could easily take the piece of paper it clutched in its talons like a limp mouse.

Draco peered more closely at this owl. It was the same one that had delivered that first letter. That envelope must be his pen pal's response.

He read carefully over the green cursive that seemed to grow across the page like inky ivy. His partner seemed to have honest opinions-the letter didn't carry the ring of forced conversation or pretense to it. The opinions themselves were also very thought out-he must have someone in Ravenclaw.

Most things in the letter supported that theory-comfortable house where younger kids could ask questions and be comfortable around older years, where kids liked to show off their magic skills, magical pranks involving candy-the only thing that didn't quite match up was the loud parties, but hey, who said he was an expert on all things Ravenclaw?

He had seen Snape with a first-year Ravenclaw student the other day-that student had been white as a piece of paper, and his mind had obviously gone temporarily as blank as one when the professor asked him a question that Draco knew any self-respecting Ravenclaw would know the answer to. The student had fainted from pure terror moments later, and had been taken to the hospital wing. A different teacher had later asked him the very same question Snape had asked, and the he answered it just fine. After that incident, the older Ravenclaws had marched up to Dumbledore's office and demanded that he reprimand Snape for everything he had been doing to make life miserable for his pupils. Dumbledore had refused to, but Ravenclaw had yet to give up. That matched up with the letter-it said they all joke about Snape, and obviously didn't like him.

Ah yes, and of course there were more questions, though not half as many as there had been in that first letter. What was his favorite candy? What was his favorite song? Who was his favorite musician? What types of music did he like? Did he play an instrument? Draco brightened a bit at those questions. He did, in fact, play piano, but he couldn't really talk about that with the rest of his house-why would they want to talk about music when they could talk about how to terrify first-year Gryffindors? Maybe, just maybe, he had found someone to talk music with.

Maybe something good had come from the school's vain attempts at unity between houses after all.

Whoever had written this had taken the time to answer all of his questions in detail. Remembering his short, somewhat aloof answers he had given to their questions, he felt the slightest bit sheepish.

Apparently, the name of his favorite flower was a daffodil. That was good to know. He would have to remember that one if he wanted to tell his house elves back at the Manor to plant more of those. He repeated the name to himself several times, trying to imprint it in his memory. But it was just such an odd word.

"Whatever genius came up with the name 'daffodil' must have been mute." He said to himself. It was so easy to write out daffodil, but it was such an odd name to say aloud.

As he read, he came to a particular line that stopped him in his tracks.

…_prefer irises. They are so soft-looking, and bright, like they've been painted into the landscape. _

Draco thought about how he had described the sunset to himself. He had said it looked like painted irises as well, hadn't he? How odd.

There was that stupid kiwi question again. This person was just so _persistent_ about that. Why was it so important that they knew the answer to such a random question?

He chuckled a little when he read the p.s. Whoever had written this was willing to defend house elves. He would have to be careful no to not mention them again. In doing so he would just be setting himself up to an argument over the ugly creatures.

He frowned. Whoever wrote this had asked what his house was like. He thought of how honestly his pen pal had answered his questions. He should return the favor. But what if he gave something away? What if he revealed something he shouldn't have? What if his mysterious pen pal didn't understand when he described his house? Their house was obviously a comfortable place, a place where people could trust. What if they couldn't understand living in a house where you couldn't just ask questions, where you were lumped into a group of people who were known for being not entirely trustworthy and sly?

He looked up from the piece of paper and notice that the peculiar owl that had carried the letter was no where to be seen. Instead, his own owl, seemingly a bit dull in contrast to the other owl, which had been much prettier and brighter, had appeared beside him.

Draco set off for the Great Hall, only to realize that his owl was following him. With a sickening certainty, he was convinced that that owl wouldn't let him alone until it had a message to deliver. Sighing, Draco set off to the Great Hall for diner. He would eat fast, then head for the library to write his letter. Then he could be rid of his owl.

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	5. the great mix it up lunch

**Disclaimer: If you recognize it, I don't own it.**

The sun was just rising above the black spear points of trees, clouds backlit to be raspberry pink, plum purple, peach orange, and mango yellow, and strawberry red. The rich, blackberry night was dissolving away.

Hermione awoke sometime around this magnificent sunrise, and made a point of watching it. She had been watching the sky much more often these days.

She stretched, rubbing the remnants of sleep from her eyes, and glanced at her clock. It was still five o'clock in the morning. She should roll over and go back to sleep. She would need to be rested and ready in order to survive today's lunchtime ordeal.

The Great Mix-It-Up Lunch was today.

And after that came the Quidditch talk.

Hermione groaned. Why did the students and teachers have to endure this day every week when their lunch was transformed into a Herculean task? It made no sense. She sighed. If only the teachers like Professor McGonagall who had given up had any power over decisions like this one.

And this day would probably also be the day of their 'talking about Quidditch sessions'-It was usually on the same day as the mix-it-up lunches.

Resignation settled like a sandbag weight on Hermione's chest.

Then, a real weight landed on her chest with much more force.

Surprised, Hermione jumped a little, sending the owl that had crash-landed on her bed toppling to the floor with a crash.

Muttering under her breath, Hermione lifted the momentarily stunned owl from the floor. It was thundercloud grey-undoubtedly Owen, her pen pal's owl. She had received her reply.

Hermione quickly took the envelope from the owl, tearing it open hurriedly. Her fingers slipped into the envelope and snatched the paper. Pulling it out and unfolding it she smiled in anticipation, getting dressed as she read.

_Hello._

_First things first-the answers to your questions. My favorite candy is fudge. It's like eating the night -it's beautifully dark, like night right after twilight, when there is still a little light left. _

_My favorite song is Clair de Lune by Claude Debussy. It's like snow pattering on the roof, drifting down from the clouds, soft like snow-I always play it most in the winter. _

_My favorite musician is Tchaikovsky. He is a genius. He wrote so many pieces-the nutcracker and swan lake, for example-it is so easy to get lost in his music. I sometimes listen to him while I do my homework-it is very calming. Once I was worried about a transfiguration exam, and I enchanted the air right next to my ears to play Swan Lake, part one. It had the desired effect, though later Professor McGonagall lectured us on the importance of not cheating. Apparently she had detected my spell, but had not identified it. She thought someone had been cheating. _

_My favorite type of music is classical. Pop culture brings in new music, and some of it is pretty good, but classic stays classic. Rock and roll, pop, blues, jazz, hip-hop, heavy metal, techno, rap, country-they come and go. Classical is forever. It's classic for a reason. _

_Yes, I do play an instrument. I have been playing piano since I was five. That is the one thing I would do to improve Hogwarts-add music. (that is, of course, if some other changes, more drastic ones, that I could come up with, were rejected, which they probably would.) The give us more radios- then we wouldn't be fighting over the ones we have, and the school wouldn't have a reason to take them away for long periods of time. _

_What is your favorite song/musician/genre? _

_Do you play an instrument?_

_What is your favorite class? Mine is potions- it is simple, everything follows certain rules, you can know what to expect if you do it right, but if you do it wrong, then who knows? _(Here, Hermione noticed that a short sentence had been inked out-whoever had written this had thought better of their next sentence, and decided not to share it with her. She looked closely at it, but the only words she could make out were 'Snape' and 'treatment.')

_Have you noticed the owls? They ambush you; make sure you and only you get your letters. They won't let anyone else even look at them. It's eerie. I'm sure they've just been magically trained or something, but it's still…unnatural. I don't like it. _

Ah, thought Hermione. Someone has been paying attention. So I'm not just paranoid after all.

_Sincerely, _

_Pen Pal._

_P.S. Why do you care whether or not I like kiwi?_

Hermione laughed a little at the last line. Her partner was making an effort to not tell her if he liked kiwi. Though why they did she wasn't sure. Kiwi was such a colorful, fun fruit, and she though someone would be crazy not to like them, but everyone was entitled to their own opinion.

Hermione did in fact play an instrument-she could play trumpet, and had also recently been learning to play harp.

She also noticed that they had not answered one of her questions, one that had intrigued her.

Who ever sent this had been mysteriously silent on the topic of their house.

By now she was in the Common Room. A few people were up, mostly first years. Some were on the hearth by the fire, attempting to duplicate a spell they had seen Lee Jordan use-shaping the flames into the shape of a roaring lion. She hurriedly stopped them (they were all in grave danger of burning themselves) and told them the correct wand movements and words, then sat down to contemplate her letter.

The thunder cloud owl that had delivered the note had vanished, and now her own was harassing her. Grumbling, Hermione fumbled with her wand, dragging it out of her pocket, and stupefied her owl. It fell lightly on a cushion, temporarily unable to inconvenience her.

Further thought on the subject of her letter, however, was halted with a mild oath. Harry appeared at the doorway, hair unbrushed, presumably having just been rudely awoken by his owl. Apparently, his pen pal had written back.

As he opened it, he frowned, then heaved a resigned sigh.

"What is it?"

"My idiot, grammatically-challenged pen pal wrote back."

"And?"

"And I am finding it hard to decipher anything she wrote."

"She?"

"I'm convinced it is a girl."

"That's a little bit of a stereotype, Harry."

"Hermione, you heard her last letter, if you could call it that. This one is even less intelligible. It's written rather alike to how some girls gush in letters and when they talk. It's in bright, bubble-gum pink pen. There are more hearts and stars and flowers than there are words. 'OMG' makes frequent appearances. It's in that slightly messy, (in this case very messy) cursive-like handwriting that lots of girls have. You can't tell me that this isn't a girl."

"Good point."

Harry sighed, then grabbed a pen and began to jot down a quick paragraph or two. Hermione took his as her cue to leave.

The day soared by, as time does when one is dreading something that will definitely come to pass at a certain time.

The Mix-It-Up lunch was today.

The students grumbled about it, raising their hands in class to inquire as to why they had to take part in this pointless exercise. Most teachers replied with something along the lines of 'because the nit-wits on the school board honestly think that they can end the bullying and house rivalries by plopping a kamikaze of kids randomly together at a table and make them sit there for an hour a week.'

Neither teacher nor student wanted lunch to come.

Kids asked pointless questions with long, complex answers in the last minute of class, and even though the teachers knew the students knew these things, answered in detail anyway.

Fred and George were sold out of their sickness-inducing candies to students who thought it would be better to spend an hour in the infirmary being fed medicine that to endure the mix-it-up lunch. Madam Promfrey pretended she didn't know.

Teachers made their students owe time after the bell for pointless things, including staring blankly instead of paying attention and for looking at the clock. Students purposefully tried to get time after class.

But no matter how long they all put it off, it eventually came.

Students trudged and shuffled along in the corridors, inching toward the Great Hall, looks of desperation on their faces. A couple seventh years last-minute jinxed each other, and twenty third years promptly volunteered to take them to the hospital wing, grasping at straws. Even though only a fraction of that many would be necessary, the teachers allowed it.

The Great Hall. That was where Hermione now sat, miserable, mildly hexing her owl every now and then to get relief from its constant badgering.

The first thing a student had to do upon entering the Great Hall was report to a teacher to find out where they would sit. The four long tables had been taken apart and separated to make separate little tables for smaller groups of mixed houses. Hermione had been directed to a table near the corner of the wall and the door. It was so disheartening to be so close to the door, but not be able to leave her seat to exit through it.

Ron sat a table near her, and the two tried to talk to each other over the space. They were making a joint effort to spot Malfoy before he saw them. They were hoping reverently that he was assigned to another table. Both were scanning the tables full of students sporting a mixture of different colors on the badges of their robes, like a scattering of mancala stones.

"Little blonde ferret spotted." Whisper-shouted Ron.

Hermione craned her neck and spotted Malfoy's strutting figure crossing the hall.

"He's near the teacher. The teacher is speaking. That cockroach has his assignment. Hold on, which direction is he going…YES! Ron, he's going to the other side of the room, near the window! Yes! We don't have to deal with him! Hermione exclaimed, updating Ron, who couldn't see much around Professor Snape and his bat-wing robes, who was stationed directly in front of him.

Ron pumped his fist in the air, and whisper-shouted "Victory!"

Hermione spared one last look to make sure Malfoy was sitting down. Yes he was, talking avidly with Crabbe. Hermione frowned. Wait a second. Why would the teachers put two friends together? Everyone knew that the 'random arrangement' was far from random. Why had the teachers made this mistake?

Her answer arrived in the next couple seconds that she watched. Professor McGonagall, wearing a weary expression, consulted her clipboard, then seemed to inform Malfoy that he was not sitting in his assigned seat. Grumbling, Malfoy got up and started their way.

"Uh oh, Ron, that wasn't his seat, little blonde ferret was trying to cheat. He's turning away from us, no, now he's coming back…NO! He's coming our way!"

Ron swore, and turned around in his seat, with an expression on his face as though he was trying to alter Malfoy's course with his mind. What ever kind of telekinesis he had attempted, it failed. Malfoy plopped down at Hermione's table with a lemon-sour expression.

Hermione altered her face to the food, trying to concentrate on the food like it held the meaning of life.

About halfway through lunch, Hermione was starting to hope. Maybe, just maybe, she could get through this without a confrontation with ferret boy.

She was about to smile, when her hopes were dashed.

"Hey Granger? Why isn't your big ugly nose stuck in a book?"

"Because I might get food on it." Seethed Hermione through gritted teeth.

Malfoy laughed with a Slytherin first-year near him that he probably didn't even know. The pore kid was shaking as he laughed, like Draco was a bellowing troll rather than a laughing jerk. Hermione's words came back to her, and she instinctively scanned them for anything funny or stupid in that sentence that might make Malfoy laugh. She couldn't find any. He must be just trying to get a rise out of her.

"You might want to take better care of _your_ books, Ferret. Then you might actually finish your homework and hand in something intelligent."

Malfoy's face instantly turned blood-red with anger. "Are you calling me _stupid,_ Mudblood?" He asked in a low, dangerous voice.

"No." replied Hermione, a little shakily.

"That's what I thought." Uttered Malfoy in a slightly louder voice, his twisted, seething expression transforming into a smirk.

"I am not calling you stupid." Continued Hermione. "I am calling you brainless, dim, witless, dense, gullible, imbecilic, mindless, moronic, laughable, naïve, obtuse, rash, shortsighted, and thickheaded _you vile little_ _**ferret**_!" Her voice rose as she delivered this little speech until she was shouting.

Malfoy's voice, in contrast, dropped back down to its low, formidable pitch.

"Is that so? I would watch what you say, Mudblood. You shouldn't make accusations like that about your betters."

"You are not my better, ferret."

"I think not, Granger. You are a filthy Mudblood with only a few ugly, stupid friends and only your mind going for you. No one really likes you. You don't deserve your mind. You don't deserve to be here. You should jump out of the Divination tower. No one would cry if you did."

Hermione could see the teachers coming their way. She knew she shouldn't loose it. But she couldn't help it. She stood up, wound up her fist, and hit the underside of his jaw. There was a snapping sound, and Malfoy stared dumbly at her, a tiny trickle of blood dripping from his mouth, forming mancala stone-sized drops on his plate.

The next thing she knew, Professor McGonagall was dragging her out into the hall. Professor Snape was carrying Malfoy to the infirmary. To top it all off, the hex she had put on her owl wore off, and her owl came over and tried to harass her. Hermione knew her situation was horrible, but it was worth it.

Breaking his jaw had been worth all of this. It had been pure satisfaction.

The next couple hours passed in a blur. Both Hermione and Malfoy were given detention-Hermione, for hitting him, and Malfoy for the things he said to her and for provoking her like that. Hermione was sent to detention immediately, and stayed there until ten o'clock that night. Finally, when she was able to go to bed, she penned a letter in fountain pen, her cursive twisting across the paper like seaweed.

Hermione went to bed smiling. Besides hitting Malfoy in the face, something else had come of her hasty action.

She had gotten out of the Quidditch talk session that was scheduled for after the mix-it-up lunch.

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	6. Blank Paper

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

Grey on white on white. Like a blank sheet of paper, before a drop of ink blotches it. Like a collage made of swan feathers and bleached bones. All was quiet, like snowfall.

The Infirmary.

This colorless, noiseless room of the bustling Hogwarts castle was where Draco Malfoy sat, waiting for his jaw to set.

Stupid Mudblood. She was the reason he was here.

Admittedly, he had basically told her to go die but not expect anyone to care. Yes, that was harsh. He had no reason not to expect his words to fan the flames of her smoldering anger. But that didn't mean she had to break his jaw.

He felt his jaw with tentative fingers. It didn't feel broken anymore. He glanced at his watch. Madam Promfrey had promised she would come and tell him he could go when his jaw had had enough time to set. It was two oh seven. Madam Promfrey should be here soon.

As of on queue, the madam appeared, bustling over to his bed, her black, grey, and white robes swirling around her ankles.

She put a finger to his chin, feeling his jaw for any sign of the break. "You may leave, Mr. Malfoy." She finally announced. Draco hopped off the bedside and ran. He didn't want to spend even one more minute in this blank room.

He sped out of the dark double doors into the hallway, where he promptly ran into an owl. He glanced at it, expecting the multi-colored feathers of his pen pal's owl. Instead, he saw a slightly inset, dappled black and brown like bark, familiar face. His mother's owl. No, he had not run into this particular owl-this one had been waiting for him quietly and politely.

Still slightly surprised, he plucked the envelope from the startled bird's talons.

Then envelope was plain, cloudy white, like the infirmary walls-only this one, unlike the blank sheet of paper his mind had conjured up in the infirmary, had his name scrawled on it in neat, loopy cursive. He tore the envelope-it fell apart at his fingertips surprisingly easily. The paper inside was pale, almost see-through, like a ghost of a letter. The fancy, delicate, serpentine words jumped off the barely-there paper in their bold darkness. A window near him was ajar, and it had begun to rain. Drops of water beaded on the window, and fell through the crack, landing on the letter like tears. The ink began to run a little.

Moving away from the window, Draco's eyes darted back and forth across the page. His expression, which had been a little frazzled to begin with, was now perfectly neutral. A passerby would have thought him to be reading a passage from a textbook.

You would only spot the slight tightness haunting the edge of his eye like a shadow if you knew to look.

His mother was recovering from the illness that had come with the frigid winter. She inquired as to what subjects he was enjoying, what company he was keeping, for any recent happenings.

It was a short letter. It was a formal, neutral letter. His father had few words, and his mother said little more. Only the last sentence his mother had written held any weight and meaning at all.

_…continue to keep up your fine grades, and make sure to keep up your image. _

Draco's forehead crumpled at this last sentence. Keep up you image. The Malfoy image. The granite-hard mask of self-confidence, proud stature, perpetual smirk that Malfoys had been keeping up for generations. It was an image he knew well.

It was also one that was beginning to slip by fractions of millimeters.

No, he wasn't smiling at Gryffindors. He was still putting his Mudblood piers in their place. He had yet to do anything drastically un-Malfoy-like.

But he _had_ done something.

He had opened up, if marginally. His pen pal was some unknown person that he had yet to see. Whoever it was always answered sincerely, honestly, and slightly personally. Draco had unwittingly begun to open up to this mysterious partner of his. He had asked un-Malfoy-like questions, gave un-Malfoy-like opinions-the only thing about this that didn't condemn him was that no one but his pen pal had read those letters, and his pen pal didn't even know it was him who had penned those words.

That had been a big mistake, one that must be corrected.

Draco sighed, and pulled his wand from his pocket like he was unsheathing a sword. He uttered a spell under his breath, and the paper begin to burn-a slow, easy burn. Not dangerous. He watched the thin paper curl into a fist, then wither like a tree without rain, then die as a black stain spread like blood, the paper then disintegrate and fall to the floor like the torrential rain against the nearby window. Most of all he watched the ash-black _image_ be overcome by the rising tide of scorched, destroyed paper. Orange fingers clawed at the air.

He stared at the burning letter, thinking about that one meaningful sentence in the whole message of meaningless ones.

Soon there was nothing left of the thin paper for him to watch. He couldn't stand here in the hall all day. He had to go to the stupid Quidditch discussion with four people of the School's choice. He set off down the hall, carefully keeping his pace normal, his brow unwrinkled with thought, his smirk plastered on his lips. No one would look at him and think anything to be amiss.

Later that day, after classes, he sat once again in the owlery, coal-black ink staining the floor where he had been careless with the quill, writing his herbology essay.

He sat on the floor, contemplating the letter. He was to keep up his image.

Image. A fancy way of referring to the mask he was asked to wear non stop. A convincing smirk, a confident air, a way of looking down on those around him-a set of features that were to always be present about his face as if they were set in stone.

When did he first begin to develop this mask? When did it become something he did naturally? He racked his brain; searching for the first time he knew that his emotions were things that were never to contort his features from their normal smirk, confidence, arrogance. When where the tears forbidden, the worry banished?

He riffled through his memories, until he stumbled across one in particular.

He was six, and he was with a friend-their parents knew his parents, though he had no idea how. That was unimportant. What was important was that he and said friend had gone into the woods in search of some herb or another and were completely lost. The dark trees pressed in on them like looming prison gates and every shadow was a malevolent creature stalking them, waiting for the perfect opportunity to pounce. Which way could they go? There was only enough light to see each other-no way to see much farther, to where the woods ended and the estate began.

Draco was worried and scarred, like a puppy separated from its mother for the first time. He didn't know what to do or where to go.

His friend had turned to him and asked why he wasn't scarred. Draco had been confused, and had answered that he was scarred out of his mind.

His friend had frowned, and said Draco looked perfectly calm.

Draco pondered this a moment. When he was six, he hadn't realized he had a mask, but his friend couldn't see through it, so by that time it had been good enough that it didn't crack.

Sighing, he continued scribbling out the first draft of his herbology essay.

There was a whoosh above him, and he glanced skywards.

An owl crashed into him, spilling the ink from his inkwell all over the straw-strewn floor and sending his quill spinning away from him.

"Stupid owl." He muttered, shoving it away from him. How ironic that he crashed into his mother's owl this morning, and now his pen pal's owl crashed into him.

Pulling the envelope it held with considerably more enthusiasm than he had plucked his mother's letter.

_Dear Pen Pal,_

_My favorite song is Pavane- you've probably never heard it. It is beautiful and sad. It brings tears to my eyes every time. The first time I heard it was when my band director handed it out to me- we were going to play it at a concert. (At Muggle schools, you can take a class specifically for playing music.) _

_I have no favorite musician- there are so many good ones. _

_I also love most genres, though jazz may be my favorite. No, scratch that. Probably classical. _

_Yes I do play instruments. I play trumpet and recently took up harp. I love the resonating sound the harp makes, and playing the trumpet is like pouring all the emotions that you've built up over the day into an instrument, creating something beautiful. _

_My favorite class is herbology. I find flowers and plants in general to be calming. The greenhouse always smells so intoxicating. _

_Yes, I have noticed the owls. I bet this was purposeful. Though, it is also a bit dumb, having your owl pester you until you send the letter. Whoever came up with that was not that bright. I mean, you are delivered letters from your partner's owl-you'd recognize it if you saw it. So it you saw that owl pestering someone, you would know that they are your pen pal. _

_What is your favorite piece to play on the piano? _

_Do you play any sports? If so, which ones? I play lacrosse and tennis. (Both Muggle sports.) _

_My favorite game is Mancala. I love strategy games. What is your favorite game?_

_Goodbye for now!_

_Your pen pal._

_P.S.-I want to know whether or not you like kiwis because you are evading the question. Why would you not want me to know? Why is it such a big deal? You've gotten me curious. _

Draco studied the letter, smiling every once in a while, eyebrows raising once. Whoever wrote this had let slip that they were not Pureblood-they had mentioned Muggle schools and Muggle sports. That was something he would have to think about.

Ah yes, and his partner was perceptive-they had noticed the owls. Well, they were right; he could always find his partner by tracking her owl. He paused, forehead furrowed with concentration. Did he really want to know who his Pen Pal was? It was a luxury, being able to talk to someone anonymously. He was actually starting to enjoy it.

Then his stomach flipped in his chest. This was exactly what his mother and father didn't want to happen. _Keep up your image._ He was getting much too personal with a stranger-a Mudblood or Muggle-born, no less! His image was becoming tarnished already. He could still save it, if who ever he was writing to didn't ever find out who he was. But he would have to start cleaning up his act now.

_Keep up your image._

His mother's words, burned in the back of his mind. He would have to change the way he wrote, make it more formal and stop mentioning details that someone might use to rip his mask away, and reveal the boy behind it.

Draco wasn't sure what would happen if his mask slipped.

He picked up his quill, and scrawled out _Dear Pen Pal,_ in elegant cursive. He noticed how alike his handwriting was to his mother's.

He had to keep the mask in place. Behave like Malfoys should, like they had for generations.

He jumped when he noticed the first four words that he had written on the paper. _Keep up your image_. Only four words, black as if burnt onto the otherwise blank paper, in a script to match the original phrase his parents had inked. He crumpled up the paper and tossed into the fire, watching it flare up slightly.

He took out a new piece of paper, and re-wrote _Dear Pen Pal._ Then he sat back and wondered what safe topic he could write about. He obviously couldn't answer all of her questions-some of them were too frivolous for him to answer. But as he glanced at the letter, he noticed how much of it was on music.

He had wanted someone to talk about music with for a long time, and now he finally had one.

Music was an okay topic, wasn't it?

He paused, thinking. Music-he would come dangerously close to opening up if he persued that topic. But many people of high status talked about music-it could never hurt. Besides-his pen pal was the only one who seemed to know anything _about_ music. It was too tempting a chance to pass up. Inking his quill, he penned his first sentence.

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**Sorry this took so long-FanFiction wouldn't let me publish this chapter for a while-it kept telling me there had been an error when I hit the edit button.**

**And a big thankyou to twistedartist for showing me how to get around said error message.**


	7. The Tower

**Disclaimer: I own nothing**

Hermione sat up in bed, gazing sleepily at the sunlit curtains that fluttered slightly by the window. In the next window over, she could see the sun rising.

It looks like a mango, Hermione thought groggily. Unpeeled mangos are red at the top, yellowish in the middle, and green at the bottom. The colors fade into each other, rather like the sunset right now. Layers of color, all fading into each other. Soon, though, the sun would break the tree line, and instead of a mango peel, the sky would be decorated with a canary-yellow mango.

Pulling herself (and her covers with her) to the side of the bed, she gazed at her clock. The magically glowing screen was the only source of light in the room other than the rising sun-no one but Hermione had awoken yet. The room was filled with the rhythmic snoring and occasional talking-in-their-sleep mumbles of her room mates.

It took Hermione a little while to get her sleep-cased eyes to focus on the spindly, spider-leg clock hands. When she finally did, she groaned and rolled back over to the other side of her bed. It was 3:50 AM. Why did she have to be awake _now?_ And on a day when classes had been canceled?

After a few minutes honestly trying to go back to sleep, she gave up and dragged herself out of bed and to her dresser, snatching a green Muggle blouse and sparkly jeans, pulling them on hastily. She took more time choosing her socks. Hermione had an almost never ending drawer of socks-ankle high, knee socks, regular, knit, sewn, croqueted, tie-died, multi-colored, sparkly, patterned, tights-everything available. She settled on a pair with tropical fruits on it-she thought it in line with her bleary, early-morning thoughts about the sunrise. It also, notably, had a kiwi near the top.

Dressed, hairs frizzy and unbrushed like a lion's mane, she headed to the common room to sit in front of the fire, and maybe read. Or maybe go for a walk.

The Common Room was deserted. No one was up with the sun on a day without classes. The hearth lay cold and grey-it hadn't been lit since last night.

She gazed out the windows again, seeing how the newly risen sun sparkled on the lake as though some little kid had spilled glitter on it. It was beautiful. She should go see it up close-a walk it was. Sliding on shoes over her kiwi socks, she headed out.

The air was crisp and still that morning-it almost seemed thicker at night than during the daylight hours. Hermione breathed deep, filling her lungs with fresh air. The air rushed down her throat like water-a nipping cold to be expected in January.

The edges of the pond had frozen over into a ring of flawed mirrors. She sat at the base of a little tree whose roots brushed the ice-the same tree she had sat under the last time she was here. In the beginning of summer before she left it would be glorious and full-looking and would remind her of mint chocolate chip ice cream-offering shade to cool you down, covered with little twigs that looked like the chocolate chips, and would seem almost to drip over towards the ground-many of its branches were easily weighed down.

Hermione shivered. She should have brought her coat-her green blouse did little to ward away the cold's bite. Her socks, on the other hand, went all the way up to her knees, and were nice and toasty.

Kiwis. The subject her partner was mysteriously silent on. Whoever it was seemed to think that the delicious little fruit was somehow beneath them. Laughing, Hermione resolved to either find a song about kiwi's, or make one up. She would send it to her obstinate partner with her next letter.

Still giggling, she rose and began to walk around the edges of the pond. She would occasionally stop and examine the water for creatures who would brave the ice. No such luck-apparently, any animal with any sense was still hibernating through the January winds and snow and rain-turning-snow-to-slush.

It had rained yesterday, and today dark clouds hung over Hogwarts castle like a threat, though temporarily lit up by the sunrise. The sky seemed to be scowling furiously. The ground was still damp like a wet washcloth.

While she was gazing at the sky, she noticed a dark, rather petite owl flying away from the top window of Slytherin tower. Well. She thought. Someone in Slytherin is sending a letter, and it's not to their pen pal-it's not searching for a student, it's flying off the grounds.

Hermione sighed contently, listening to the birds sing. She should have bought her iPod-it could record the birds singing so she could listen to it at her leisure later. She couldn't wait for her pen pal's response-it was usually a day between letters, and she had sent her message yesterday.

Whoever it was knew something about music, and obviously enjoyed it. Their favorite song was Claire de Lune. Whoever wrote it liked classical music, and their favorite composer was Tchaikovsky. They had been playing piano since they were five. She had not had much time to think about the letter, but now that she did, she could see that those facts said something about this mystery person other than that they enjoyed music.

Whoever her partner was, they were classy.

Hermione frowned slightly. What had she revealed to her partner? What inferences had her pen pal made about her based off her words?

She looked up at the sky and saw her partner's owl, grey like the thunderclouds in the sky, flying at top speed towards the Gryffindor tower. Hermione grinned-it expected her to be there. Where would it look first when it didn't find her there? Smiling, she watched it intently.

It flew into the Gryffindor window, only to speed back out, a look of utter surprise on its feathered face. It flew to the top of the tower roof, and began surveying the grounds. When it spotted her, it immediately dove for her at top speed, pulling out of its dive at the last second. The dark owl extended its talon, offering her the letter it carried. She took it, exited for her reply. Ripping it out of the thundercloud of an owl's talon, she excitedly began scanning the envelope.

Her pen pal played Quidditch- not that much of a surprise. She expected that answer. They had also put down Quidditch as their favorite game. That annoyed her slightly-she wanted to find out about this person. Being told twice that they liked Quidditch was _not_ finding out about her mystery partner.

Oddly, they didn't bring up any new topics. They had answered those first two questions in short, to-the-point answers; much more formal than in the previous letter. However, after those first two stiff, answerless sentences came a large paragraph that took up the rest of the page. It had started out just as formal as the last sentence, but had slowly softened up until, about halfway through, it was written the same way as the last letter-by no means familiar, but friendly and at least somewhat open.

The topic of this second paragraph had been music.

Their favorite song to play on the piano was Kinderzenen by Schumann. They asked many questions regarding music and band classes Muggles could take, such as _what instruments do they teach? What types of music do they play? Do they use any of those hideous electric screeches? _Whoever wrote this liked to compose short pieces just to see what it sounded like, even though their father claimed it was a waist of time. They had included a piece in the envelope along with the letter from when they were twelve. The staff, notes, symbols, time signature, and clef sign were all hand-drawn, and the paper was sprinkled with ink stains and blotches. There was no title. There was also a rather lengthy list of pieces they wanted her to listen to, no doubt classical down to the very last one.

At the very end, there was a signature, as well as a P.S. - _Quit hounding me whether or not I like kiwis-it doesn't matter. Also, your constant badgering makes me _want_ to withhold the information. _

Hermione laughed. Well, in her last letter she had given a genuine reason-that the determination not to tell her had made her curious. Her partner had followed suit and included sound reasoning in their refusal to tell her.

Heading back towards the castle, she looked at her watch. It was now 4:12 AM. Likely she was still the only one up. Oh well. She could use that time to reply to her pen pal and to use her computer to Google this long list of classical pieces and to make a disk. With her next letter she would send her portable CD player and a disk loaded with music for her pen pal to listen to. Her partner had sent her a list-she would send them one as well, only she would not make them go find the pieces. She would send the songs directly to them.

Her face crumpled into a frown. She would also have to send directions on how to use said CD player. The last thing she needed was to get it mailed back, broken. And she would have to write them up herself. Her pen pal was probably not accustomed to reading the kind of directions that came with the product.

When she reached the Gryffindor Common Room, she sat down to her computer. First on the long list was Toccata and Fugue in D minor by Bach. She found a YouTube video and clicked on it. Unfortunately for Hermione, her computer's sound was turned all the way up, and this was a rather loud and somewhat scary song. Hurriedly she punched the volume button, lowering the sound, looking around guiltily to see if she had woken anyone up. It looked like everyone was still asleep.

She breathed a sigh of relief, and continued on with the piece. This list was going to take a while to get through. She should just skip to making the disk right now.

Using Google once again (Hermione loved Google-it had YouTube, Google Earth and Google Maps, and when given a word or phrase it could find her exactly what she wanted and more.) she found several songs, all Muggle, that her Pen Pal should hear. Laughing, she put the list (which was much shorter than that of her partner) onto a blank disk.

Glancing at her watch again, she groaned. It was only 4:20. Why did the time have to pass so slowly, like a snail crawling across a trail? She still had all kinds of time before everyone else woke up. How could she burn that time?

Her eyes darted around the room once before settling on her open trumpet case. She hadn't practiced in a while. The room of the Gryffindor tower was flat, so she could practice up there. It would be magical-she would be able to play with the birds. Besides, she should probably move it anyway-she had been getting complaints from first and second years. Apparently her trumpet was as good as any leg or trip-wire, and many students had bruises and scrapes and ripped robes because of her not-so-bright choice in places to put her instrument.

Grabbing her music books, folders, and her trumpet, she clambered out the window and dragged herself up onto the flat roof, scraping her knee and her elbows in the process.

Once on the roof, she attached her mouthpiece to her trumpet and began to play 'Winter Wonderland'-it was still winter, so even though Christmas had long since passed she could still play it.

She was soon totally immersed in her music, especially when she reached some of her jazz pieces. Hermione was so immersed, in fact, that she did not hear Professor McGonagall coming to the window until the professor cleared her throat and demanded that Hermione stop playing for just one second.

Startled, Hermione had halted mid-measure, almost dropping her trumpet. That would not have been good-she did not want to watch her trumpet tumble from the top of the tower all the way down into the lake below.

"Miss Granger, Professor Snape would like me to tell you that you officially have detention tomorrow at five o'clock for waking him up this early on a day without classes. Though why he had to wake _me_ up to get up out of bed and tell you I don't know." The last part was muttered under her breath. "And, Miss Granger, could you please come down from there?"

Sighing, Hermione complied.

Snape should be happy, she thought. It must be much nicer to wake up to music than to an alarm clock gone berserk.

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	8. Pursuit

**Disclaimer: I own nothing!**

Draco Malfoy sat in the owlery, slumped on the window sill, sleeping. Sun light streamed through the glass, igniting his hair as though with a halo. He looked for all the world like a little angel.

And then a pretty barn owl swooped down and crashed straight into him, a rude awakening. With a mild curse he shoved the owl off of him, stumbling to his feet, not at all happy to have been awakened.

He could no longer be compared to an angel.

Shoving the owl off of him and snatching the letter it held, he grumbled like thunder.

The package the owl carried this time was not a thin envelope-this time it had some weight to it. That was what had caused it to fly so unsteadily. Not that it was the most graceful of fliers to begin with.

Ripping the paper away from this parcel, he found an odd _thing_ inside. It looked like a _Muggle_ thing. Coming to that conclusion, he promptly threw it across the room.

A small note had been included inside the parcel, and had drifted to the floor like an autumn leaf. He leaned down to pick it up, and saw that it was far shorter than previous letters. He frowned and read through it. His questions in the previous letter had not been answered. There were only two paragraphs. One explained that his pen pal had some music they wanted him to listen to, (obviously a response to his list of songs) and the second was a detailed description of what that Muggle thing was (apparently it was a music player of some sort) and how to use it. And, of course, there was the usual P.S.

He tentatively trod over to the music-player-thing he had tossed against the wall, hoping it still worked. He picked it up with timid fingers like it might bite him. On the thing that the letter called a _screen_, there was a list of song titles.

He glanced again at the curly green cursive. All he had to do was push a button, and it would play the song on the screen. Apparently, if he _didn't touch anything_ after that first button, it would play all the songs on the screen in order.

He tentatively touched that button. And music played, just like the note said it would. He was actually a little shocked that it worked. He didn't hold out much faith on Muggle contraptions.

And so he spent his morning, listening to a lengthy list of songs, none of which he had ever heard before-he assumed it was Muggle music. When the thing finally went quiet, he must have been sitting there for a solid hour.

With the sudden silence, he began thinking. He _was_ curious about the individual that had sent him this music, which he knew so many random facts about. It would be easy enough to find out. He could just look for the person his dark owl would find and crash into.

Snatching his quill, he penned a short letter, with his opinions on the songs, questions about them, some more music recommendations, pretty much keeping to the topic of music. A safe topic and better yet, one his parents were absolutely clueless about. A topic he could safely talk to someone about while keeping up his image. Just as his mother had warned him to.

It was shorter than his norm, but that could be excused after his partner's two-paragraphed.

His owl, which had showed up a little while ago, ramming its head into his arm, making it hard for him to keep his penmanship straight, was close at hand. Draco sealed the envelope and tied it to his owl.

It took off with its letter, with Draco close in pursuit. It rocketed down the corridors, through the Great Hall, even went outside a few times. Draco almost lost it when he came to the stairs, but managed to keep it in sight. Thankfully there were few people in the hall to see him sprinting.

His owl finally slowed as it reached the end of one corridor. Draco was gasping behind it-he was not exactly in prime condition.

The portrait swung aside, giving the ink blot owl entrance to the room behind it. He tried to follow it, but the portrait swung closed, almost hitting him.

"Password?" it inquired.

Sighing in defeat, Draco backed up, gazing at the portrait. Even if he couldn't know the name of his pen pal, he could learn their house.

The portrait was of a huge flamingo of a lady. He knew this one-this was the Gryffindor portrait entrance.

So his pen pal wasn't a Ravenclaw, as he had previously assumed.

He headed back to the Slytherin Common Room, pondering this new discovery. Chances were he knew his pen pal, and despised them. He had also probably sent some nasty jinx their way. And booed them at Quidditch games. And boisterously made fun of them in the Great Hall.

More importantly, a Gryffindor knew his love of music, along with a large array of other facts. This Gryffindor was probably just as curious about him as he was about them. They might find out who was answering their letters. That could not happen. It would lead to the crash and burn of his image.

And if there was one thing that would anger his mother and father more than any bad grade or letter from the school telling them he'd gotten detention.

At least he had stopped telling his pen pal about much other than music. Thank Heaven for small miracles.

He needed to calm down. He needed to go for a walk. It there had been a piano at Hogwarts, he would have made a bee line for it. Unfortunately, pianos were not high on the list of things Hogwarts was about to get.

He headed out the large doors, out onto the lawn eternally in the shadow of the castle. He was went and sat by the lake, composed a first draft of a piece of music, looked at the sky. He stayed there all day, growing steadily calmer. Normally he would have spent this time terrorizing first years.

And he was just sitting there, minding his own business, when the owl shot out of the sky and crashed into him, sending him sprawling into the lake.

**Sorry it's been so long-I have had the worst case of writer's block. I'm sorry this isn't very good, I felt so bad about not posting that I just wrote this up in about half an hour. **

**Also, on the whole electricity thing-I recall radios in the books, so I figured other appliances would work as well.**

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	9. Spilled Ink

**Disclaimer: I own nothing!**

Hermione sat against a tree, reading outside. She had just gotten out of Professor Snape's detention, and needed to calm down. He claimed that there was a mouse problem and had set her to the incredibly pointless task of organizing his already organized potions-he had her take them all off the shelf and put all five hundred thirty-nine back in the correct order after setting up a mouse trap behind them.

Her reading was interrupted by Ron sprinting past her, panting and calling Errol's name. She looked up from the page just in time to see Errol, as lost as ever, fly straight into Draco Malfoy and send him sprawling into the lake. The expression on his face was priceless.

Errol lay on the ground, already picking himself up.

"Errol, Errol, are you O.K.?" Ron muttered frantically, testing his wings to be sure he was alright, that his bones were all unbroken and eyes focused. It would be bad if Errol got hurt while Ron was using him.

Draco groaned, half-swimming, half-dragging himself out of the water. "I think I broke something. I can't move my ankle."

Ron turned and spared him a fleeting glance. "Quit whining, Malfoy." Then he turned his attention back to Errol, who appeared to be absolutely fine.

Hermione sighed. True, neither of them cared whether or not Malfoy was hurt. In fact, it would make her day if he wound up taking a detour to the infirmary. But she should still _pretend_ to be concerned. Professor McGonagall had not forgotten Hermione's behavior towards Malfoy in the Great Hall.

Rolling her eyes, Hermione placed her bookmark between the pages and got up.

"Ron, it looks like Errol is fine." She turned to Malfoy, who was spitting out mouthfuls of water and trying to clamor out of the lake and whining under his breath about how the dirty lake water would ruin his robes.

"Come on, Ferret." She thrust her hand out roughly and yanked him out of the lake (and nearly pulling his arm out of its socket in the process).

"Is your leg OK, Malfoy?"

Without answering her, Malfoy spat "I don't need a Mudblood's help!" and set off towards the castle. He made it about two steps before collapsing with a yelp in a soggy heap.

"That's what I thought."

"I repeat, I don't need a Mudblood's help!" He attempted to rise and fell right back down, his ankle at an uncomfortable angle.

Hermione rolled her eyes, then pulled out her wand and levitated the boy in a heap at her feet and headed towards the infirmary. Malfoy jerked and spat and threatened as he was pulled along behind her. "My father will hear about this" was repeated at nausea.

They finally arrived at the infirmary. Madam Promfrey started a little at the sight of Hermione, wand in the air, floating Draco Malfoy behind her, who was spitting mad and wet as a drowned rat.

Hermione sent an annoyed look Malfoy's way, and dumped him on the tile floor.

"I think his ankle is broken."

Recovering, Madam Promfrey lifted Malfoy and set him down on a bed, and began working on knitting the bone. Hermione took this as her cue to leave.

As she was walking down the corridor, a dark owl rammed into her, sending her sprawling around the corner and down a flight of stairs.

"Ughhhhh." Hermione moaned. The rain cloud of an owl nudged her hard, and dropped its letter in her hand.

This morning, Harry and Ron had told her that while she had been away carrying out her sentence in Snape's office, her pen pal's owl had showed up in the dormitory, wildly seeking her, and getting desperate when it couldn't find her. It had finally flown out the window after spilling several bottles of ink and getting tangled in Lavender's hair a couple times. It must have been searching for her while she was in detention, and later grudgingly helping the ferret.

The owl took off. Her owl barn owl was sure to turn up soon, pestering her to respond.

She got up-and immediately collapsed again. She looked at her leg in disbelief. It was swollen. What were the odds that on the very evening that Malfoy took a tumble and busted his ankle she would wind up with the same injury!

She got up again, this time leaning on only her uninjured leg. She did not want to go to the hospital wing just now-with any luck the annoying blond ferret would still be there. Hopefully she could get to the Common Room without someone noticing her limp. She could sit on her bed and do her homework without standing. The swelling would probably go down overnight.

She was telling herself this all the way up a flight of stairs, all the way down multiple corridors, all the way to the portrait. She almost made it without anyone discovering her ankle.

Almost.

Neville Longbottom, the kid who attracted bad luck like a magnet, happened to exit the passage behind the portrait just then, ramming right into her.

"Oh, Hermione, I didn't see you there. Are you O.K.?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." She started clambering to her feet.

"It looks like you fell hard. Your ankle doesn't look so good."

"No, no it's fine!" Hermione secretly seethed. Why couldn't he have decided to leave the Common Room rive minutes later? Why did he have to be a gentleman and take her to the Hospital Wing?

"I think you should see Madam Promfrey."

Hermione protested loudly, but Neville didn't listen. Oh, the irony, she thought angrily. Didn't I _just_ bring Malfoy to the same place, in a similar manor, for the same injury?

By the time they reached the infirmary doors, Madam Promfrey had retired. Malfoy's ankle was healed, but she had wanted him to stay over night due to something Hermione hadn't noticed-his eyes weren't focusing all the way. He must have bumped his head when he took his spill into the lake.

Since Madam Promfrey wasn't here, she would just have to sleep here overnight. In the same room as the pampered ferret-boy. All because of a simple ankle injury that could probably heal itself.

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	10. Reading by Moonlight

**Disclaimer: I own nothing!**

_By the time they reached the infirmary doors, Madam Promfrey had retired. Malfoy's ankle was healed, but she had wanted him to stay over night due to something Hermione hadn't noticed-his eyes weren't focusing all the way. He must have bumped his head when he took his spill into the lake._

_Since Madam Promfrey wasn't here, she would just have to sleep here overnight. In the same room as the pampered ferret-boy. All because of a simple ankle injury that could probably heal itself._

Malfoy's eyelids slowly fluttered open like a butterfly's wings. He was in the infirmary. The window across from him was open, letting moonlight spill in. The Wompering Willow was backlit by the moon, as were the clouds.

But moonlight wasn't the only light in the room. Across from him, in the bed under the opened window, someone was reading by wand light under the covers. Well, whoever they were, they probably didn't want to be interrupted.

Why was he here again? Granger had yanked him out of the lake and forced him to the infirmary, where she had left him in an undignified heap on the floor. But Madam Promfrey had healed his ankle. Why was he still here, late at night?

Slowly, the rest of the afternoon came back to him. His eyes had been unfocused. He had hit his head harder than he thought in the lake. The Mudblood hadn't noticed, but the madam had. She had demanded he rest and try to sleep.

In all honesty, his forehead _did _throb, and hurt more than a little.

Now it was late at night, and the only other person awake was the student in the bed across from him, reading under the covers.

He glanced around. The room was empty, save himself and the students across from him. His eyes were starting to adjust to the dark. He shivered. He never liked sleeping here, surrounded by rows and rows of empty, bleached-bone white beds and white, unadorned walls. It seemed to lack life. He shivered again.

Then, he nearly had a heart attack.

A barn owl had, out of nowhere, flown in front of the open window. Backlit by the moon, it appeared black and sinister, standing out starkly against the white walls. It hurled itself through the open window at him, knocking him down into the rather uncomfortable, white sheets.

Sitting up again, he put a hand over his heart and took several deep breaths. Quickly, he snatched the letter from the owl and broke the seal. His hand moved from his heart to his head-the throbbing was getting worse, not better.

Ducking under the covers, he pulled out his wand and began reading the familiar green cursive.

_Dear Pen Pal, _

_I am writing this while in the Hospital Wing-I got plowed down by my owl and hurt my ankle. It would probably have healed itself by morning. Why am I here? _

Draco did a slight double take, reading that first paragraph. His mysterious pen pal had had the exact same experience he had had-well, almost the same. They had both acquired injuries to the ankle when knocked down by an owl. They had the same question he had had minutes ago-_Why am I here?_ But most importantly, if he was reading this right, his pen pal was the student under the covers across from him.

He put the letter down-he could finish it in a minute. His pen pal was at most ten feet from him, and he wanted to see who it was. All he knew so far was that they were a Gryffindor, and at least half-Muggle.

His discovery, though, was not to be. As soon as he stood up, he felt dizzy, like he was leaning out the window of the astronomy tower. His headache exploded like fireworks. He half-sat, half-tumbled back into bed.

Put out, he ducked under the covers again, and resumed reading the letter.

_I listened to the songs you suggested-both the first and second lists. When I first listened to Toccata and Fugue in D Minor, it was around four o'clock in the morning, and I was scared I had roused the entire House. It is a rather loud song. It took me awhile, but I recognized it-they play that all the time in Muggle movies-it's a classic scary song. (I hope you know what movies are). _

Draco frowned. He did not, in fact, know what a movie was. That bothered him-he didn't like not understanding something. Ah, well. It was probably his own fault-he never paid any attention in Muggle Studies.

His pen pal continued to describe their reactions to each and every song-it made for a long letter. The thing was five pages long.

_I played that piece you composed on trumpet-it was probably meant for piano, but it sounded nice on trumpet. I tried it on harp as well-it sounded much better that way. It was well-suited for softer instruments. _

Draco couldn't help but feel a little proud here-someone liked his music.

_Now, on your other question-I believe it was 'do they use any of those hideous electronic screeches?' Electricity can be good in music! It can! Admittedly, it is overused and can be like cat claws to your ear drums, but it isn't always! In fact, this company in Japan that has been creating electric singers called Vocaloids-_ Yeah, yeah, yeah, you think electricity can be good for music. My opinion isn't changing, thought Draco. He skimmed that paragraph. Something about a 'vocaloids'-whatever those were.

His pen pal ended, of course, with a gripe about him not telling whether or not he liked kiwis. He smiled.

They had sent him back his composition. He held it up, examining it by wand light. He could remember penning this while sitting on the porch, ordering around the house elves just because he could. The flowers had smelled like his mother's perfume-truly, those hideous little creatures did better than he gave them credit for.

He swished his wand, summoning ink, paper, and a quill.

He wrote back, spouting his thoughts on music. Finally, an audience that _cared!_

He was about to sign and send it, when he paused.

_Keep up your image. Keep up your image. Keep up your image._ Those words kept bouncing around in his head, keeping time with the throbbing in his head.

What would his mother think, knowing that her son talked this openly with a Mudblood? How could he send this? He should just rip up the letter now, burn the pieces like he had burned his mother's letter.

But he just couldn't seem to tear those words. They were honest. They were what he wanted to say.

He wanted to send them. Where was the harm in his pen pal hearing them? He could have sworn a woodpecker had made a go at his head, it hurt so badly.

His pen pal seemed like a nice person. He was curious who they were. He wanted to meet them. They talked to him honestly, not like his fellow Slytherins who, as a rule, were out to better themselves.

He wanted to meet them.

There. He admitted it. He wanted to meet his pen pal. He wanted to meet the one person to whom he had talked honestly. Yes they were a Gryffindor. But he hadn't seen them in their robes, bearing the Gryffindor insignia everywhere they went. It meant less to him. Yes it was probably someone he knew and didn't like. But he could probably still think of them as the person he wrote letters to.

His head felt heavy and stuffy and it hurt.

So he did it.

_Will you teach me how to play the trumpet?_

He would meet them. If they said yes.

Before he could loose his nerve he thrust the paper into an envelope, and thrust it out above the covers, where an owl quickly picked it up.

As he listened, he heard about three wing-flaps, then the thud of a large bird crash landing into someone. That someone cried out. Draco didn't react, but filed that cry away in his mind.

His pen pal was female.

That had been a stupid idea. It must have been the hit he'd taken to the head. He wasn't thinking rationally.

But he didn't regret it.

**Please Review! Tell me what you like, so I can write more of that!**


	11. Hallway Encounters

**Disclaimer: I own nothing!**

The weather was perfect-the skies were clear and blue as a centaurea montana flower. There was only a hint of a breath of wind. The sun was out, and anyone who had been up a five o'clock in the morning would have been basking in its rays, absorbing as much vitamin D as possible before the next day of rain. The rest of Hogwarts Castle was still asleep in bed-there were no classes today. Instead of the perpetual chatter of too-perky first years and the groaning of seventh years (and teachers) who hadn't had their daily cup of coffee yet, there was peaceful quiet.

On this peaceful morning, Hermione Granger stormed out of the infirmary, doors slamming behind her.

Her night had not been peaceful-any fool could tell from the smudges under her eyes the color of black onyx. Sleeping in the same room as Malfoy had not done her any favors.

Her ankle felt much better, though- as long as Neville didn't come and make sure she had been treated, she should be fine.

She headed towards Gryffindor Tower. Maybe she could get some last-minute shut eye. She could practice her trumpet, or her harp. (She would need to start plucking those strings more often if she wanted to get much better) She also planned on reading the letter burning a hole in her robe pocket.

Last night, her owl had come and crash-landed on her bed with the letter. It couldn't have waited until morning! Her footsteps echoed off the stone floor, accenting her woke-up-on-the-wrong-side-of-the-bed feeling nicely.

Approaching the Fat Lady, she muttered _exploding snap. _Sensing that Hermione was not in the best of moods, she opened up without comment.

Inside, she headed off to her bed as quietly as she could. Upon plopping down on it with a barely-repressed sigh, she snatched the envelope from her pocket. Ripping it open, she began to scan the letter.

_Dear Pen Pal,_

_ Despite what you say about music and electricity, I have not been swayed. Electricity is the single worst thing that has happened to music. Ever. _

Hermione sighed and shook her head. Her pen pal was so narrow-minded.

The rest of the letter was pretty much on music. They had decided to give Hermione the handwritten sheet on music. There was the normal P.S. _(You're so pushy! I fail to see why you care. I think this might be harassment!)_ But, under that normal little grouch of a sentence, was a second P.S.

_Will you teach me to play trumpet?_

Hermione did a double-take. Someone wanted her to teach them trumpet. She was going to meet her pen pal. It was too good an opportunity to pass up!

Unless, of course, her pen pal was not the person she imagined them to be through their letters.

She would have to consider. She would love to teach music, and to get to know her mystery confident in person, but wouldn't it be just her luck if she had gotten Pansy Parkinson for a pen pal. Then again, Pansy probably didn't have a head for music.

Pulling out a quill, she began composing her reply.

_Dear Pen Pal, _

She didn't get a whole lot farther. She really should start out with an answer to their trumpet question.

Shoving her quill, paper, and her pen pal's letter in her pocket roughly, she stood and headed out for a walk.

"Out again so soon?" the Fat Lady inquired when Hermione passed through the portrait.

"Restless." Was her one-word reply. The Fat Lady nodded. "You're not the only one."

Hermione's head whipped around. "Who else is up?"

"Harry, Ron, Fred, and George. You're the fifth person to leave the Common Room in the last ten minutes. Is there something special about today?"

Bemused, Hermione shook her head. "No, not that I know of."

The Fat Lady shrugged, and waved goodbye.

Frowning slightly, Hermione continued on her way down the corridor, wondering what could possibly have roused Ron and Harry from their beds at five ten in the morning on a weekend.

She wasn't left wondering long. Turning a blind corner, she rammed right into Harry. Ron, Fred, and George were right behind him. Each looked as though they had been caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

"And what would you four be doing up so early?" Hermione asked.

Shifting his feet slightly, George spoke up. "Well, remember when that git ferret-boy insulted Ron and Harry after Quidditch practice? Well, we thought to ourselves 'we never properly got back at him, now did we?' So we…well… heh." Seeing Hermione's expression, he faltered a little.

"You're not mad, are you Hermione?" Ron spoke this time. He was blushing a little.

"Of course I'm angry!" All four boys flinched in unison. "You didn't take me with you! In case you've forgotten, there is no love lost between said ferret and myself."

"Well, we can all argue about this later, O.K.? But, see Hermione, we really need to head back to the Common Room."

Hermione was about to ask why, when heard a familiar voice.

"Wait till my father hears about this!"

Harry flinched. "That's why."

A very red-in-the-face Malfoy turned the corner, with an expression like an enraged bull. It didn't take long to see why. His robes had been dyed bright, bubblegum pink. A pink rose drooped from a hole cut over his chest where the Slytherin insignia would normally be. His hair was streaked with pink paint, bubblegum, and putty. Pink highlighter had been applied messily to his face.

Hermione stifled a giggle.

"When you're father hears about this he'll have a heart attack, and won't be able to do anything for you from his bed in St. Muggo's. But, if they do manage to revive him and he tries to help you get petty revenge, he'll have to deal with the school board. Then he might wish they hadn't revived him." Fred laughed at him.

Malfoy was not amused. Whipping his wand out of his pocket, he began flinging curses around the corridor. Crabb and Goyle followed his example. The five Gryffindors ducked. Ron pulled out his wand, but before he could open his mouth, Filch rounded the corner, accompanied by Mrs. Norris.

Now, just as those two turned said corner, Malfoy fired a particularly nasty hex that hit Filch's precious cat right in the face. Screeching like a banshee, Mrs. Norris ran back to Filch and hid between his legs, hissing.

"What do we have here now? Students fighting in the halls." Filch smiled a horrid, filthy smile. "Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Goyle, and Mr. Crabb, tsk, tsk. I'm going to have to give you detention. In the old days, you would have been hamstrung, but you're in luck. These days there's always some parent wailing to the press. You'll get something much more savory." Seizing Malfoy's florescent sleeve and all but dragging him down the hall, Filch commenced petting and cooing to Mrs. Norris.

"But what about them!" Malfoy wildly gestured at the five Gryffindors, who had been trying to make a quiet get away.

"Sure looked to me like you attacked them unprovoked. You then attacked my cat."

"Unprovoked! Look what they did to my robes! That will _never_ come out! And it was your stupid cat that got in the way of my curse!" Malfoy continued ranting to deaf ears as he was dragged off to detention.

Deciding not to test luck any farther, the four quickly made their way back to Gryffindor Tower, laughing the entire time.

Later, when Hermione was alone again in her dorm, her mind returned to the question of giving trumpet lessons. She was in a much better mood than earlier (mostly due to Malfoy's robes, his protests, and his impeding detention) and, under the influence of this pleasant mood, decided to agree to her pen pal's request.

After getting that little decision out of the way, she quickly finished the rest of her letter. But when she reached her usual P.S., she paused. She was running out of original responses.

So, instead of the normal sentence, she wrote a poem.

_Ode to Kiwis_

_Oh kiwi, green as tourmaline,_

_Your sweet juice runs over my lips_

_Like a savored kiss_

_When put in ice cream,_

_Your minty green hue swirls like steam_

_Through the bland vanilla_

_It is of you that every chef dreams_

_Inside you, you hold a hundred tiny obsidian seeds_

_Each precious_

_For from each tiny seed, _

_A kiwi may be born._

Sides shaking slightly from laughter, Hermione tucked the letter into an envelope and handed it to her owl, who, for once, had been patient while Hermione penned her response. She continued to laugh as she watched her owl carried her words away.

** Please Review! **

** I noticed that I haven't been very diverse with my characters in this fic, so I'm putting a question out there. Who would you like to make an appearance in the next chapter? Please tell me!**


	12. Quidditch discussion

**Disclaimer: I own nothing**

Outside, the January storms that had seemed to have finally let up had returned in full force. The sky was like one giant bruise. Snow drifted down from that bruise like swan feathers. The wind tore at the tree limbs with invisible talons. Not one single student had braved the cold for a Monday afternoon on the castle grounds.

No one, that is, except for Draco Malfoy. Well, sort of. He wasn't exactly braving the cold-he was inside a greenhouse, which was even warmer than the inside of the castle.

He wasn't here willingly, either. He was carrying out his unfair detention. Darn that numb-skull Filtch. Any other teacher would have given those good-for-nothing Gryffindors detention along with him. It was him and that deplorable cat that had landed him here in this sweltering greenhouse planting and sorting slimy little plants that smelled noxious.

To top it all off, it was a Monday. Draco _hated_ Mondays. They were absolutely positively his least favorite day of the week.

He had been at this for two hours now. His hands were dirty and covered in dirt. The stench of these plants clung to his robes like a parasite. He'd have to change out of these clothes immediately, perhaps even get rid of them all together.

And just as soon as he was permitted to flee the greenhouse, he was going to be forced to attend a second torture.

Quidditch discussion. One of the worst ideas the school board had ever had.

His finger snagged on yet another long green thing. He'd been told what this was in Herbology, but he didn't care. There was a reason why he always had house elves do this.

His punishment should be up any time now.

As if on queue, Blaise Zabini appeared. "You're done, Draco." Despite the fact that he was about to spend an hour in the too-hot greenhouse getting foul smelling dirt over his hands for slipping something into some Hufflepuff first year's potion, which had turned it a sickly grey color. The poor girl had sniffed it and turned into a rat.

"I can't imagine you're happy to be out here."

"No, I have better ideas on how to spend my afternoon, but at least I'm getting out of that Quidditch thing."

Draco groaned. "Are you sure I can't stay in detention for one more hour?"

"Sorry. They'll probably send someone down to get you. You're not the only one trying to get out of this."

"Are you _sure_ I couldn't just hide behind one of these green tarantulas?"

"No one's stopping you."

Outside the greenhouse, a ominous adult silhouette appeared. Draco dived behind a particularly big and leafy plant. Blaise attempted to keep a straight face.

"Mr. Zabini, have you seen Mr. Malfoy?"

"No, Professor, I haven't seen him since breakfast. I think everyone saw him poor honey on the little Weasel kid."

Draco stifled a laugh. Ron had been completely clueless that Draco was behind him with a jug full of enchanted honey. He had upended it on the redhead's fiery mane and walked as quickly as he could back to the Slytherin table. The teachers were all discussing some boring, important matter, and so had been less that vigilant about keeping an eye on the students. Payback for yesterday. As soon as it touched Ron's hair, it became magically stick there. When he tried to pull it out with his fingers, it just stuck to his hands. Of course, Potter had to go and ruin it by getting the Mudblood. Darn Granger knew every spell in the book.

"No, Mr. Zabini, I did not see that. I will have to ask Mr. Malfoy about that. But, that is not the point. You should have seen him on your way here."

O.K., so he'd have to fly under the radar for awhile, and try to get out of a second detention.

Draco might have gotten out of the Quidditch discussion, had he not been hiding behind a plant that had a lot of pollen clouding up its leaves. He couldn't help it. He sneezed.

That sneeze, of course, gave away his hiding place to the Professor, who personally escorted him up to the castle. It had never looked so forbidding.

Five minutes later, Draco was sitting in a small, unused classroom, glower fixed on his face. The other three occupants of the room where a small, black haired Gryffindor girl who was sleeping against the wall, a quiet Hufflepuff boy who sat in the corner, and Loony Lovegood.

When he entered the room, Luna looked up from her magazine, which was much more colorful than anything Draco read, and the headlines were unfamiliar. It was also upside-down.

"Hello, Draco. How has your day been?" Luna asked in her whimsy voice. She stared at him with those big, intense eyes. Did that girl ever blink?

"My day is none of your business. I have no idea why you are talking to me."

"I'm talking to you because that's why we're here in this classroom instead of out enjoying the afternoon."

"Do you honestly _do_ all the things the school asks us to? Ever noticed that you're the only one who does? No one else is talking."

"I'm not the only one who does as the school asks."

"Well, who else does?"

"You do."

Draco started, then fixed this calm, unblinking girl with his most poisonous glare. "This is why everyone calls you Loony Lovegood."

"You do. You put effort into writing to your pen pal. Not that that's bad. You should continue-she really is a nice girl. And she likes your letters. Her face lights up when she gets a letter from your thundercloud owl."

"Wait a second. You know my pen pal? Who is it?"

"It's against the rules for you to know."

"But no one follows the school's stupid rules!"

"I do."

While Draco was getting steadily angrier, Luna remained calm and odd as usual. When he didn't reply, she just went back to reading her magazine. Draco cocked his head to see the headline.

**Flying Purple Rabbit Starts Fire in Boutique Shop-Two Dead.**

Of course- what else would an insane girl that didn't blink and never got mad would read?

Draco found an overstuffed chair and sat down. Luna opened her mouth and he raised his wand threateningly. But that unnerving, unnatural girl seemed to know that he wouldn't do anything. That or she was confident that she could counter what he threw her way. She just kept talking. Groaning, Draco turned the wand on himself and enchanted Clair de Lune to play next to his ear, a little louder than usual. He needed to drown this girl out.

About half an hour in, he received a reprieve.

A pretty owl swooped in through the previously closed door with a letter bearing his name on the envelope in familiar green ink.

Tearing the envelope off, he began reading.

_Dear Pen Pal,_

_I would be happy to teach you to play trumpet. However, I can only do so if there are two trumpets between us. Something makes me doubt that you have a trumpet. _

Draco frowned. He should have thought of that before. No, he did not have a trumpet. Even if he had one at all, he wouldn't have brought it to Hogwarts.

The letter went on to answer his questions, ask a few of their-her, now he knew it was a her-own, and at the end was a poem about kiwis.

He almost missed the fudge at the bottom of the envelope, attached to the letter. He must have written in the past that he liked it. Thinking back to his earlier letters, he faintly remembered his pen pal asking what his favorite candy was. Jeez, how did they remember things like that?

When the "Quidditch talk" finally ended, Draco had managed not to talk to either the Gryffindor or the Hufflepuff and had avoided talking to Luna again. A success.

His happy feeling crumbled the instant he exited the doorway, though. No sooner had he crossed the threshold did a teacher appear around the corner. Uh-oh. That teacher had remembered the honey-in-the-hair incident.

The afternoon ended with him being dragged by his forearm to someone's office for a detention assignment for the second time in two days.

**Please Review!**

**I have been wondering lately about what I'm doing with this story- I know how it will end, just not exactly how long it's going to take me to get there. I've been meandering with this story. So, should I continue the meander, I'll get there eventually strategy that I've been using, or should I switch and move more deliberately towards the end? Please tell me. Also, for I was unable to fit all of my requests because most of them are easier for Hermione to meet than Draco. **


	13. Purple Ink

**Disclaimer: I own nothing!**

It was dusk. The storms of the afternoon had blown themselves out. The sun was just finishing up setting, and the horizon and spy above Hogwarts Castle were deep lavender. The clouds near were the sun used to be were a lighter purple. The sky reflected into the lake, making it into a Vanda orchid.

Hermione Granger sat by the lake, writing by candle light.

_Dear Sirius-_

_It's good to know you're safe, but I'd like you to stay that way. Meaning, you should _not_ go and 'dig up dirt' on Bellatrix! And you should _not_ try to break into Malfoy Manor and pull your lovable stray act! Lucius will not fall for it! It isn't worth it. And don't tell me not to worry because I will, and I will do something about it. You are not going on some crazy spy mission that won't do any good! _

Hermione sighed. Sirius probably wouldn't listen to her.

She set her quill and special green inkwell down and folded her half-written note. It was so peaceful outside. On the other side of the lake, she could see a clump of fireflies like floating sequins.

The sun had come out just before it had set, and the earth around the lake had absorbed some heat. The snow around the waters had melted, but farther up it hadn't. It was like a magic ring around the lake.

Hermione shut her eyes, smiling a goofy, ear-to-ear grin. She should have brought her harp out with her-this was the perfect place and time to practice. Ah, well. She couldn't really summon it, it was too big to do so safely. Music was the only thing that could make this evening better. She could finish that letter later.

Her peaceful moment didn't last long.

The hairs on the back of Hermione's neck pricked up. Someone was behind her.

Turning, she saw Luna standing behind her, perfectly still, like a tree on a breezeless day. She couldn't have been there for long, though.

"Hi Luna."

"Hello." Hermione had been talking to Luna more often lately. No, 'talking more often lately' wasn't the right way to put it. More like Luna had walked up to her out of the blue the other day and started a conversation in Herbology. She was nice, and seemed to understand when Hermione just wanted to sit in silence. She didn't talk to her when whe was writing letters, unlike Harry and Ron, who would try to read over her shoulder and ask what she was writing about and who she thought her pen pal was.

Luna moved forward and placed something on Hermione's lap.

"I was looking through my old sheet music and I found this." Luna's wrist was adorned with a purple quartz bracelet. An obviously hand-carved wood owl dangling from it dragged over the paper, obscuring part of the title. Hermione pushed it aside gently, reading the one word title.

The title of the piece was Pavane.

Seeing the piece brought back memories to the front of her mind with a violent jolt. The first was her playing it on the trumpet at a school concert. She had been so focused on it, trying to get all of those little details perfectly. Next was her listening to a recording of that concert on tape, frowning at all the little mistakes. Then, her playing it by a different lake over the summer. Then, her playing it by that summer lake with a friend, before they left for a summer vacation. Then, her listening to it on an iPod by that same lake, right before she got her letter to Hogwarts. Then, her standing on an Australian dock, looking at it, wishing she had her trumpet, then trying to grab it when it slipped between her fingers, tumbling into the harbor. The old piece of paper, fraying at the edges, didn't stand up to the water, and began to slowly sink and disintegrate. Finally, her sitting in front of a piece of paper, answering the question _what is your favorite song?_

Pavane.

Luna just stood by Hermione, waiting for her to be ready to speak. "Luna, where did you get this?"

Luna shrugged her shoulders. "It was jumbled in with my other sheet music. You mentioned liking it." Mentioned it-she had said it once in passing. How did Luna remember that?

"Thank you Luna!" Hermione jumped up to hug her, knocking over her green inkwell. Green ink spilled all over both her and Luna like an explosion of green sap from an exploding snap.

Hermione whipped out her wand and began muttering spells, wiping away the stain from their clothes. "I'm sorry Luna-"

"Oh, it's fine. Stains can be fixed easily. At least it didn't shatter-blood can't be cleaned up as easily and quickly as ink."

Hermione glanced at the sheet of paper to be sure the green ink hadn't stained it. What horrible luck it would be, to loose something she treasured, then be handed it again, only to ruin it with a clumsy jostle. Luckily, there was only a small stained patch in one corner.

The same could not be said for her letter to Sirius. She'd have to start all over again.

"I'm sorry about your ink. I don't know where you can get a refill of that color." Said Luna as she knelt to help Hermione finish clearing away the glass shards and ink.

"It's okay, I could try enchanting it. That was how I got this color."

When they were sure that no stray shards remained, the two girls headed back inside, Luna to bed and Hermione to enchant a new batch of ink and to practice her harp.

Ink is a tricky thing to enchant. It's a simple enough spell, but when the amount of ink changed, or the thickness is changed, or quality, or ingredients are changed, then the resulting color will change. It was hard to control the exact hue, if the color would be faint or strong and definite-the whole thing was impractical.

Hermione had done it in her second year, just to try it out. She had been looking through spells on ink after she had seen that awful diary of Tom Riddle's and had come across this little spell. It was essentially useless, but hey- a new, tricky spell that looked easy enough-how could someone like Hermione resist the temptation?

That was how she had started writing her personal things in colored ink. For school assignments, she still used plain old black.

She had started with blue, which had been a disaster. She had been writing at the breakfast table in the Great Hall and some idiot had thought it was water. Honestly, water was clear, not blue! But that didn't matter. What did matter was that someone drank ink and it was her fault.

Next she had tried red. That was also a disaster. She had been careless, and had spilled it all over herself. She had been in her second year still, and had spent more time learning tricky spells and spells to impress teachers than practical spells, like spells to rid clothes of stains. Someone had seen her and thought it was blood. She had been rushed to the infirmary, despite her vehement protests that she was fine, that it wasn't blood.

Green had been try number three. So far there had been no memorable disasters, so she had stuck to that.

Now, up in Gryffindor tower, Hermione was thinking of different colors to try that could not be mistaken for something else. Orange? No, someone might think that was orange juice, and it would be that first day in the Great Hall all over again. Maybe purple? There weren't a whole lot of purple liquids, and most people weren't fond of grapefruit juice, so even if it was mistaken for that, no one would drink it…

Purple it was.

When the ink had been enchanting and was slowly lightening to a nice shade of violet (or so Hermione hoped), she pulled Pavane out of her pocket and dragged her harp over.

Pavane. Under the title, in smaller, thinner print and in parentheses, were the words pour une infante defunte. If her band teacher's knowledge of French was correct, it said for a young child's death.

When her band teacher had first handed it out, he had said it was a sad song, and had translated the inscription below the title for the class.

It was a sad song, but when played it was beautiful.

Hermione slowly plucked the notes on her harp, more from memory than from the piece of paper in front of her.

The peaceful moment was shattered when a big, dark owl swooped down out of nowhere like a falling bomb. Hermione barely saved her new batch of ink.

The letter was longer than normal-eighteen pages.

_Dear Pen Pal,_

_I didn't think of that complication of there being only one trumpet. Can trumpets be conjured with magic? If so, what spell would I use to do so? Do you know any spells that would conjure a piano?_

_Hey, do you know Luna Lovegood? Today she was in the Quidditch discussion I had to sit through, and your letter came. She said "__she really is a nice girl. And she likes your letters. Her face lights up when she gets a letter from your thundercloud owl." _

_Thank you for the fudge-it was delicious. How do you remember details like that? _

_When do you think the winter storms will finally be over? It's February, the snow should be turning to that disgusting slush stuff that turns brown on the side of the road, not coming down with a vengeance! _

From that point on it was all music related-recommendations, stapled together sheet music pieces, opinions, and questions about Muggle music (her pen pal had caught onto her Muggle roots).

Looking at that short non-music section, though, she took the most information from. Luna knew who her pen pal was. Hermione set that piece of information aside for later. Her curiosity would get the better of her, and she would ask Luna. But would Luna tell her? Even if she didn't, she might find out something. Her pen pal had learned that Hermione's face lit up when she got these letters-maybe she could learn something like that.

Next, spells to conjure instruments-something she hadn't thought of before. Something new for her to try. As of now, she knew no spells, but she didn't have to reply immediately…

Rising from her chair, she snatched a few sheets of paper, a quill, and her fresh batch of colored ink, and headed for the library. It was time for some research.

On the way there, she ran into Dobby.

"Hello, Miss Hermione." Dobby stammered, smiling, happy to see his friend.

"Hi Dobby. I just going to the library…Hey, you don't happen to know any spells that can summon a musical instrument, do you?"

Hermione hadn't expected him to, which was why she was surprised when Dobby replied with "Of course Dobby does! Dobby can make a grand piano if Hermione wishes!" And before she could stop him, he had summoned a grand piano, fit for a professional concert.

"That's not exactly what I wanted, but a start. Do you know what spell I could use?" Dobby didn't, but Hermione had new hope for finding a way.

"How did you come across this spell?"

"Little Malfoy wanted a piano in the garden, and Master Lucius and Mistress Narcissa said it was fine just where it was. So Little Malfoy made Dobby make a new piano for the garden!"

"I take it 'Little Malfoy' is Draco Malfoy?"

"Yes! Little Malfoy was all grown up on the outside but pouted like a little boy when Little Malfoy didn't get what Little Malfoy wanted. Little Malfoy was childish and gave Dobby ridiculous orders every day!"

Hermione nodded. "Dobby, do you think you could get rid of the piano? I don't think the teachers will be very happy to find it lying here in the middle of the corridor."

Nodding like a bauble head, Dobby snapped his fingers, and the piano disappeared.

Thanking him and talking with him for a few minutes, Hermione headed off to the library. She would find that spell somewhere. Even if she had to read right through Harry and Ron bombarding her with questions for their homework.

**Please Review!**

**I'm sorry to TridentLayers- I couldn't put Dudley into this story without a lot of chapters to get there. I will try to put him in in a later chapter, if possible. SORRYSORRYSORRY!**

**For those of you who caught it, Pavane is mentioned in a previous chapter as being her favorite song. Fudge is also mentioned as being Draco's favorite candy. The letters may hold more significance...**


	14. care of magical creatures

**Disclaimer: I own nothing!**

Care of Magical Creatures- a class usually taught outside, near the Forbidden Forest.

Draco still wasn't sure why he was taking this class. He didn't really like Hagrid or his sub, (who was here now) Grubbly-Plank. He wasn't really an animal person. He tended to get dirtiest in this class. It was taught outside, so he sometimes had to slog through muck and mire, thoroughly wrecking his shoes and the bottoms of his robes, with the rain washing away his hair gel. All-in-all, a horrible class.

At least there was no rain today, but it was by no means sunny.

Slytherin had this class with Gryffindor today-oh, joy. An hour of listening to that Mudblood show off her mind and think she was better than everyone else, watching Potter get attention, and Weasley bungle whatever it was they were learning.

Well, when life gives you lemons, you make lemonade.

"Hey Weasley! Are those robes, or a bunch of raccoon carcasses sewn together?"

Ron lunged and Potter raised his wand. Draco leveled his wand and shot a curse right towards Ron's face-the same curse that had hit Mrs. Norris.

But the curse didn't connect.

At the last second, someone had reached out and grabbed the redhead's robes and gave them a firm tug. The Gryffindor had been pulled out of the way, but also pulled away from Draco.

"Ron! Can't you see he's baiting you? You too, Harry. Honestly! Don't lower yourselves to his level."

The Mudblood stood behind the boys, admonishing them. Of course. Granger always had to ruin his fun.

But before he could have another go at the Weasley's ego, Professor Grubbly-Plank showed up. The noise of chattering muted with her presence.

Looking around to be sure she had everyone's attention, Professor Grubbly-Plank nodded. "Students, today you will be learning about the unicorn and its natural habitat."

Many female faces lit up whilst many male faces pouted. The curriculum seemed to focus on feminine creatures while the sub was teaching.

"I will pair you up, and you will go into the forest together to a specific location marked on a map which I will hand out to you. These are places where there have been unicorn sightings. You are to take notes on your surroundings, then come _straight back. _Do you hear me on that? No stopping to smell the roses."

With that, she began to pair students up 'at random.' Though Draco noticed that no friends were paired together, and that the all-Gryffindor pairs and all-Slytherin pairs were few and far between.

Then, four horrid words reached Draco's ears. "Malfoy, you're with Granger."

Both Draco and Hermione looked like they might just make a run for it. Unfortunately, the care of magical creatures sub was oblivious to their unhappiness, and just handed the pair a map with a dot in what appeared to be a random place, but apparently once hosted a unicorn.

"As soon as you and your partner have your maps, you may go."

And so, by cruel twist of uncaring fate, Draco Malfoy was forced to set off into the woods for an hour with Hermione Granger.

It actually went well for maybe the first ten minutes. Somewhere around the ten minute thirty second mark Draco tripped on a root jutting out of the ground like a foot extended out in an aisle and fell flat on his face in a puddle of mud and moss and leaves. This did not put him in a good mood.

Draco didn't get up quite as quickly as he maybe should have, and Hermione tripped over _him_, and she was not as lucky about where she fell. Hitting a rock, her nose promptly began to bleed. All over the back of Draco's robes.

"UGH! I'VE GOT BLOOD ON MY ROBES! THAT WILL NEVER COME OUT! AND IT'S FROM A MUDBLOOD, TOO! CAN THIS DAY GET ANY WORSE?"

He probably should have kept the Mudblood comment to himself. Two seconds later, the pair had two nose bleeds between the two of them.

Hermione pulled the map out of her robe pocket, and groaned. Mud had seeped through her robes and ruined the bottom third of the map. She could see where they had started, the key, and the dot marking where they were supposed to go. But the path to get there had been completely obscured.

"Well, we are now officially lost."

"Of course we're not, Granger. We just have to go back and get another map."

"Wrong again, Ferret. Yes, go back. Do you know how to _get back_ without the map?" Sure enough, the light that signaled the end of the forest was too far behind them to be seen. The two were cloaked in the forest's shadows. The color drained from Draco's face.

"You got us lost!"

"_I_ got us lost? Who wasn't looking where they were going in the first place? I don't think that was me."

"_Who wasn't looking where they were going?_ I tripped over a root, you tripped over me! Which is bigger, me or the root?"

Hermione's curt reply was cut off by a rustle in the bushes. Upon closer examination, he could see a faint glow coming from behind the leaves. Draco's memory chose that moment to drudge up all those lessons on small but dangerous creatures that made their homes in the Forbidden Forest-creatures with teeth, with spines, with poison, and with magical abilities such as to create an illusion. Why did he have to remember these now?

Granger, instead of going still like him, advance on the bush in question with her wand raised. Extending her hand, she pulled a branch of the bush aside, and then abruptly put it back in place.

"Well, don't keep me in the dark, what is it?" Demanded Draco, having found his voice at last. "It's not dangerous, is it?"

"Don't worry-it's just a Firebird." Draco's stare was akin to a blank piece of paper. "You know, a zhar-ptitsa."

"Granger, if I didn't know the common name, why in the world would I know the scientific name?"

"Russian in origin, glows, said to bring both luck and doom? Stravinsky wrote a ballet inspired by it! Don't you remember this? It was on our last test! _And_ it was on out history of magic test. _And_ we learned about it in potions-the feathers can be used in many potions!"

"I don't remember things that are on tests! I memorize it for the test, and then flush it out of my brain!"

"_How_ did you manage to keep an O in magical creatures?"

"I showed up! It's not that hard of a class! Besides, just because I'm not a walking book doesn't mean I'm not smart!"

"If Darwin was right about anything, you wouldn't have lived this long!"

"Who's Darwin?"

While they were bickering, the firebird in question stepped out from behind the bushes, and slowly inched closer to the group. When it wasn't attacked, it grew bolder, and walked right up to Draco. Absorbed in his argument, Draco didn't notice it until it nuzzled its torch-bright head against Draco's clenched fist.

"AHH!" Draco jumped a foot in the air and, unthinkingly, hit behind Hermione. The fiery bird just cocked its head, bright eyes still focused on Draco. It then sprinted around Hermione and plopped itself onto Draco's lap. Draco was far from happy about having a brightly colored glowing peacock sit on his lap.

"Quit your whimpering, Draco. It isn't that dangerous, unless you capture it."

"Do you have to capture it? What if it _tries_ to be captured?"

"That's tagging along, not being captured."

The bird cooed, and nuzzled Draco's hand again. "Looks like it likes you." Draco's eyes widened and he tried to thrust the bird off his lap, to no avail. "Is that bad?" "Draco, don't you remember anything at all about the Firebird? Remember all those Russian princes that tried to capture it only to get a mixture of extreme good luck and misfortune?"

Draco's face remained confused.

"Oh, just don't try to hurt it and you should be okay. If it wants to go, it will. If it likes you, you can give it to Hagrid when he comes back or Professor Grubbly-Plank if you're desperate.

The pair trudged through the woods, getting thoroughly dirty and their mood worsening. The Firebird appeared unaffected by the muck, though, and took a lost-puppy kind of adoration for Draco.

After about an hour, Draco collapsed on the ground and shouted, "First I get mud on my robes, then I get a nosebleed, then I get lost, now a stupid glowing bird thinks it's my pet! Where will it all end!"

He received no sympathy from Hermione.

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	15. In the Forbidden Forest

**Disclaimer: I own nothing!**

It was getting late, and the shadows cast by the trees were growing longer and more misshapen. They were beginning to look like fangs as the sunlight stopped filtering through the leaves. It grew steadily colder, so that every time you breathed out a small cloud of wispy steam appeared. Roots and rocks protruded from the ground, malignant and attempting to trip, cut, and bruise the unlucky passerby.

Needless to say, Hermione Granger was far from happy in the Forbidden Forest, and her mood was not improved any by the quality of her company. Draco Malfoy trudged beside her. (Or, more accurately, a few paces behind her, every once in a while demanding she wait up.) She repressed the urge to repeat her actions at the mix-it-up lunch and break his jaw.

"My feet hurt!"

"Stupid bird, go away!"

"NO! These robes can't rip, they're Chinese silk!"

"I'm cold!"

"That stain will never come out!"

"Stupid bird, I don't care how special the Mudblood claims you are, go die in a hole for all I care!"

At this latest one, Hermione finally snapped. She whirled around, causing her robes to fly and twist around her like she was a mini tornado. "That. Is. Enough! I don't care that you're feet hurt; they wouldn't if you looked where you were going. Of course you're cold-it's dusk during winter in a forest! There is no sun to warm things up! If those robes are so expensive, why did you wear them to care of magical creatures? If you use the right spells, that stain will come out. And I have had enough of being called 'Mudblood,' so you are going to purge your vocabulary of that word. Got it?" Draco nodded weakly-Hermione was truly frightening when she was furious.

"Good!" And with that, Hermione turned 180 degrees and resumed her march.

"What are we looking for, anyway?"

"Someplace to conjure a tent for the night and rest until morning."

The two walked in silence for a few meters. Then, out of the blue, the firebird jumped up and almost knocked Malfoy over. It wrapped its legs around his neck, digging its talons into his expensive and now potentially doomed robes. It appeared to have been tired of walking, and wanted Draco to give it a lift.

"Hey!" Draco's scream startled Hermione in the peace and quiet.

Hermione sighed, and sat down on a nearby log to wait as a wrestling match ensued between bird and ferret.

For a few minutes, she contemplated making a silent getaway. It would be heaven to be free of Draco's constant complaining. It would also be faster-Draco didn't have it in him to keep a steady and rigorous pace. But no she couldn't. The teachers would find them eventually, and she might as well make it easier for them by staying near the ferret. So, for the moment, she was as good as chained to ferret boy.

The fight in front of her was escalating, and the victor-to-be was painfully obvious. Malfoy cursed as the jubilant firebird kicked him in the gut. He tried to shove it away, and it latched onto his hand like a barnacle. Draco shook his hand back and forth for all he was worth, but to no avail. He screamed 'I'm going to tie you up over a fire and watch your feathers smolder, peacock!' In response, the firebird regurgitated a slug it had eaten a few minutes ago down Draco's robes. A minute later, the firebird crowed in triumph.

Hermione sighed, rose, and walked over to help Malfoy off the ground with the firebird on his chest.

"Want some help?"

"I don't need help from a Mu- I mean a Gryffindor."

Hermione rolled her eyes as he tried to push the firebird off of his chest, to no avail. Then, reluctantly, she leaned over, shoved the firebird away, and latched onto Malfoy's hand, yanking him upright.

And so, as the fates laughed, Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger held hands. For maybe two seconds.

The instant he was vertical, Malfoy ripped his hand from Hermione's. Not talking or looking at each other, the pair continued on into the forest.

The firebird remained unaffected by the tension. It ambled along beside Draco, every once in a while flying a few feet, gurgling and chirping and occasionally stopping to eat some unidentifiable plant.

Eventually, they came to a suitable clearing. Hermione summoned a tent and tent poles, along with two sleeping bags and pillows. He was perfectly happy to sit back and watch her pitch the tent, but Hermione had other ideas. "Get off your butt and help me!" Sighing, Draco got up to help.

Not Hermione's best idea. Within ten minutes he had managed to make a six inch rip in the back of the tent, snap a tent pole, accidentally whap Hermione with a tent pole, accidentally whap himself with a tent pole, drop the tent cloth in a mud puddle, set a pole into a snake hole, and get bitten by a highly venomous snake.

Eventually, Hermione banished him to a log twenty feet from where she was putting up the tent with instructions to figure out how to make the swelling of the snake bite to go down and counteract the venom.

He didn't have to try long-the firebird stayed near Draco at all times, and now was no exception. It lowered its beak to the forest floor and plucked a ground cover-type plant from the ground. It pressed the leaves up against the swollen area. It almost immediately began to shrink back down to normal size.

The fire bird then thrust the root of the plant into Draco's gaping open mouth, which had fallen open when the 'stupid bird' solved his predicament. He gagged, tried to spit it back out, but wound up swallowing it anyway. It didn't seem to do anything.

"That's probably for the venom, Malfoy!" Hermione called from across the clearing. She made note of the plant the firebird had used before finishing pitching the tent. As soon as she was done, she gathered a few samples and stored them in her pockets. She would show them to Professor Sprout later.

An hour or so later, when the tent had been pitched and Malfoy had been declared by Hermione to be venom-free, (though she was no herpetologist) both wizards sat in their sleeping bags, unable to sleep.

So it is understandable that they almost jumped out of their skin when they heard voices shouting outside the flimsy tent, along with the hooting of an owl.

Hermione snatched her wand, leapt out of bed, and thrust aside the tent door to investigate who was there. Draco pulled a pillow over his head to block out the noise.

Hermione returned shortly to the tent, her wand emitting a bluish glow. "Malfoy, get up. Professor McGonagall is here. We can go back to Hogwarts." She was happy to finally get away from him.

Draco jumped right up, with much more enthusiasm than he had shown all day. He helped pack everything up so he could leave sooner. He was so ready to be out of the woods.

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**Special thank you to Star-Of-Hearts, who beta'd this chapter. Thankyou so much!**


	16. The Piano

**Disclaimer: I own nothing!**

It was a bright and sunny morning, the kind where the sun filters through the windows in long streaks on the floor and everything feels warmer than it really is. Where there is hardly a cloud in the sky to obscure the sun and you would swear that the grass was covered in glitter because all of the dew drops where shimmering and reflecting sun rays.

Draco Malfoy cracked one eye, glared at the sun like it was a first year Gryffindor, then rolled over and pulled a pillow over his head.

"I don't want to get up." He muttered, almost imperceptibly. He hadn't exactly had the best night's sleep, staying up in that ice-cold tent waiting for a teacher for half the night , then trudging back to the castle. Then, there had been the task of getting rid of that firebird. He had given it to Professor Grubby-Plank, who had been delighted for reasons unknown to Draco. Today was Saturday- He was free to sleep in. He needed to sleep in. So why was the sun mocking him by shining in his face?

Drawing his wand from the bedside desk, he waved it lazily at the curtains, flicking them shut. It didn't work-some light still got through. Glancing at his bedside clock he groaned. It was ten sixteen in the morning. He really should get up. But he didn't want to.

Rolling out of bed, he began searching for his robes.

Half an hour later found him strolling the hallways, meandering in the general direction of the owlery. It had been awhile since he had gone there and looked down from the window at the ground and up at the sky. Also, it would be very convenient if he managed to fall asleep 'on accident' and take a small nap.

But as soon as he reached the owlery, all thoughts of sleep exited his mind. For sitting in the center of the owlery was a grand piano.

When Hermione had asked Dobby to get rid of the piano he had summoned, he had not made it disappear-He had merely transported it to the owlery-an out-of-the-way spot where it should be just fine.

Draco did not know this-all he knew was that by some miracle, he could now play his favorite instrument to his heart's delight.

But with this blessing came a curse.

Apparently, over the course of the night, a certain firebird had gotten loose. It now lay in a ball under the piano, asleep, snoring softly and shedding feathers on the floor. Draco groaned-to make it move, he would have to wake it up. If it behaved anything like it had in the Forbidden Forest, it would proceed to stick to him like glue.

He would just have to let it stay where it was. Just like the sun when he had awoken, it mocked him without even trying.

Sitting down at the piano, he ran his fingers over the keys. It sang beneath his fingers, perfectly in tune. Odd, though, that the space set aside for music was bare? Wouldn't a piano sitting around the castle have some sheet music? It was rather like the one Dobby had made for him back home, before he was released…

To his horror, the sound of the piano was waking up the Firebird. Quickly, he switched to a lullaby he had learned when he was nine. It was not the most musical or complex of lullabies, but it sent the firebird straight back into slumber.

Relieved, Draco's fingers stilled on the keys, and, softly as he could, began a harder lullaby with prettier cords and a stronger melody. The Firebird remained asleep. Well, this wasn't exactly what he had hoped for, being only able to play lullabies, but it was better than nothing.

Sitting there, smiling, he played the piano softly, reminicing about days long gone spent sitting on the patio with a piano remarkably like this one, watching for those yellow flowers his pen pal had called daffodils to sprout up, drinking lemonade and trying not to spill it on his music.

Eventually, he was snapped out of his reverie when he encountered a new problem.

He ran out of lullabies.

He could play some repeats, but that would be no fun. He could try to remember more, but that would probably not be fruitful. That left one option.

To compose his own.

He pulled his wand from his robe pocket and summoned paper and a quill and some ink. Every once in a while, he would peek under the piano to see that his golden peacock remained asleep. Amazingly, the bird did remain with his eyes closed, as though he had taken a sleeping potion.

There were no sounds in the owlery but the scratching of Draco's pen on paper, drawing out a staff, time signature, and notes. Every once in a while, he could check how the notes sounded on the piano, softly. Sometimes he would smile and continue writing, and sometimes he would frown, and point his wand at the paper, dispelling the ink so he could revise.

It was nearly silent-You could hear tiny sounds, like the tapping of someone's fingers on a piece of wood, of a breath taken by someone across the room.

This was why Draco had a little more warning than normal when his pen pal's owl swooped in and dove towards the piano.

Instead of being caught off guard and not getting out of the line of fire fast enough, he raised his wand and stunned the owl at close range. It fell into Draco's lap, harmlessly. Draco felt like cheering. No catastrophes this time!

Placing the owl gently on the ground near the slumbering firebird, he pulled the letter from its envelope.

Something was wrong.

This letter didn't belong to his pen pal.

His pen pal wrote in _green_ ink. This letter was written in purple ink.

But it was the same owl, same handwriting, and the same kind of ripped-out-of-a-notebook paper he often got from his pen pal-same everything. He frowned. Setting the unread letter on the piano, he ran his fingers absent-mindedly over the keys, playing a lullaby. The last thing he needed was for the firebird to awaken.

As he played, he brooded. Someone other than his pen pal might have sent this letter. Impersonating her.

Come to think of it, he had last sent a letter to his pen pal…three, maybe four days ago? His pen pal usually replied within a day, sometimes on the same day. Granted, he had been in that forest for a full day, but still. Four days without a letter.

He didn't want the letters to stop.

Despite the fact that he knew his pen pal was a Gryffindor and a girl and at least half-Muggle, he wrote to her diligently. He asked her questions. She answered, as best as he could tell, honestly. Even in the beginning, when he hadn't just talked about music, whoever this person was, they had listened.

He didn't want the letters to stop.

He didn't want someone else to talk to, he wanted his pen pal. _Not_ whoever had tried to impersonate her by sending a letter by the same owl.

Attempting to calm his rage, he started another lullaby.

"That's beautiful."

Whipping around, he saw Loony Lovegood sitting cross-legged in the entrance to the owlry, back resting against the wall, staring at him with that too-intense, unblinking gaze she had.

How long had she been there?

"Why didn't you read your letter?"

Draco's brow creased, creating little valleys and mountains across his face. She had been here long enough to have seen that-why hadn't he heard her until now?

"My pen pal didn't write this."

"And what makes you think that?"

"It's written in a different color ink."

Luna laughed. "She's fresh out of green ink-I surprised her and she spilled it all over everything. She had to make a fresh batch. I believe purple was her new choice in color."

Draco's eyes narrowed. His pen pal had spilled her ink? Somehow, by the way she wrote, it seemed like she wouldn't be that uncoordinated…

Luna must have read the questions and smidgeon of doubt in Draco's face, because she continued.

"She was sitting by the lake, writing a letter so someone. I surprised her," Here Draco smirked a little. So he wasn't the only one Loony Lovegood surprised. "And she jumped up. The ink was resting on her knee. It spilled all over her, me, and the ground. See?" Luna suddenly pulled her pink-and-blue socks up her leg, showing Draco a huge green stain in on the heel of her left foot.

"I didn't see that one in time, and the stain set up. Ooh, is that a firebird?"

"Yes-please, I don't want him to wake up." Why did everyone but him know what this was? Oh yeah, he had only memorized the material for the test...

Without warning, Luna rose, waved goodbye, and left.

"Not one to excuse herself politely from a conversation, huh?" Draco muttered to himself as he watched her retreating back.

Turning back to his piano, he picked up the letter and began to read.

Inside, he learned how the lovely piano he now sat at had come to be here. His pen pal had run into Dobby, and Dobby had made this for her. She had told him to make it go away, and he had. He must not have understood precisely what she meant when she told him to get rid of it.

His old house elf had unwittingly made another piano for his old master.

By the time he had finished the letter, tried out the piece included (It was obviously a copy, inked by hand. The lines were not quite ruler-straight, and the notes weren't precisely even, but it was neat all the same, and quite readable. The title of the piece was Pavane.), it was around eleven o'clock, and students were milling about by the lake.

Remembering what Luna had said about his pen pal being down by the lake, he sat by the window and gazed at the people down by the lake, guessing who, if any, of them was his pen pal.

Unfortunately for him, the lack of soothing music meant that eventually the firebird awoke. Groaning, Draco stood up, grabbed the bird in a headlock, and headed for Professor Grubby-Plank's office to give her the bird.

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**I'm sorry, this one is not beta'd. I was anxious to get this chapter up, so I was a little lazy. **


	17. Familiar, part one

**Disclaimer: I own nothing!**

Hogwarts made only a few horrible decisions over the years, had only a handful of things about it that could be vastly improved upon. Divination, in Hermione's personal opinion was the worst of these few bad ideas they had ever had.

The room was stuffy and smelled so strongly of so many varying perfumes Hermione felt she might just vomit all over the frilly, lacy, crowded pink excuse of a table she was forced to work on. The curtains were pulled over the windows, yet there were at least a dozen lamps scattered across the room like autumn leaves that were all turned on. Who chose artificial light over the real deal?

Just when she thought she might just chuck her crystal ball across the room at that pathetic teacher, the class finally reached its end.

"You may all go!"

Rejoicing, Hermione set to work stuffing her books into an overstuffed bag that resembled a hunter's game bag.

However, as Hermione readied her things to make a mad dash for the door, she was stopped. There was a hand resting on her shoulder.

"My dear, today something you thought was a blessing will seem less so."

Hermione regarded the woman with a glare she treated no other teacher with. "Now what is that gibberish supposed to mean?"

She received no answer.

Shaking her head, Hermione headed off to her next class-History of Magic.

Half-running down the ridiculously long and steep flight of stairs down to the ground floor, picturing Professor Trelawney tumbling down them like a slinky, Hermione was not exactly paying the attention she should have to her path. This is why she almost ran over Luna Lovegood.

"Oh, excuse me; I wasn't looking where I was going…"

"Never mind. Its fine, Hermione. No harm done."

Did _anything_ catch that girl off-guard?

"Where is your next class? I have Care of Magical Creatures. I heard Professor Grubby-Plank is going to show us the firebird that found Malfoy." Hermione smiled at the last part. So many people, especially Slytherins, put it 'the firebird Draco found,' when really it was the other way around.

"History of Magic. Have fun with the Firebird- he really is rather cute, and smarter than he looks."

"Oh, I don't really expect to see it- nothing seems able to restrain it for long. It's probably acting as Draco's own personal little nightmare as we speak. Which is probably better-I can't imagine it enjoys being cooped up in the Professor's office."

Again Hermione smiled. Luna different that way, in her matter-of-fact look at the world that wasn't cynical or over-believing.

"Well, Good-bye."

"Good-bye." The two parted ways and continued on their own separate ways.

Half an hour later, Hermione sat in History of Magic, sighing inwardly at all of the slumped forms. Couldn't they at least _try_ to stay awake?

Sunlight fell in slanted squares on the floor, desks, and sleeping students. Other than the drone of Professor Binns, the only sounds were light snoring, the rustle like a bird in the bushes of notes being passed, and the occasional yawn. Professor Binns talked over this noise, oblivious to the glassy-eyed stares that were not all directed at him.

Hermione Granger was the only students whose pen was scratching out notes on the lecture. Undoubtedly Harry and Ron would beg her for it that evening. Turning to her right, she could see the two in question drawing caricatures of the Slytherin Quidditch team and exchanging drawings. She sighed.

To her left sat Prince Ferret himself. Normally, he snoozed through this period, but Luna was correct today and he found himself plagued by a very bright bird he insisted on referring to as a golden peacock. When Professor Grubby-Plank had taken it from him, she had corrected him on this multiple times, but he had held firm in his misnaming.

"_But _look_ at it, Professor! It's a peacock whose personal color wheel has been flipped! _

_"Mr. Malfoy, you should refer to it by its proper name!" _

_"Why? It's not like the darn thing knows I'm talking about it!"_

_"Are you so sure about that? Research on these things is scanty, mixed blessings keep befalling the scientists, and the firebird escapes."_

_"But _look_ at it! There is no way it's intelligent enough to know what I'm talking about!" _

_"It was intelligent enough to fix your snake bite in the Forbidden Forest."_

_"Shut up, Granger!"_

_"Mr. Malfoy, you will remain civil! You must show respect to your fellow students. On that note, you should be respectful to teachers, house elves, and all animals you encounter here. Including the Firebird!"_

_"It's a golden peacock and that's what I'm going to call it!"_

_"You don't have to call it that, Malfoy, even if you think of it that way. Just because I think of you as 'that spoiled blonde ferret' doesn't mean I address you as a spoiled blonde ferret!"_

_"Shut up, Granger!"_

Hermione smirked slightly. Said spoiled blonde ferret was busy swinging kicks at the golden bringer of mixed luck, cursing under his breath. Any other teacher would have sent the disruptive bird down to Professor Grubby-Plank, but Professor Binns lectured right through the distraction. The bird was like a homing pigeon-it refused to be parted from Malfoy.

About twenty minutes before the class was due to finish, Professor Binns called for last night's homework to be brought up to the front by someone from each row. Hermione glanced around-she and Draco were the only two who were still awake and aware. And Malfoy looked preoccupied.

"Dumb bird! That's not water! You can't drink ink! Oh, great, now look what you did! That stain won't _ever_ come out! Do you have any idea how much these robes _cost?_ Dumb bird!" Black liquid waterfalled over the precipice of Malfoy's desk onto the floor like dark blood. It was just luck that his homework remained untouched.

Rising from her seat, Hermione walked down the isle and plucked the homework from the desktops. When she reached Malfoy, the Firebird was magically bound to the wall, protesting loudly.

"You know, that's probably animal cruelty."

"I don't care, Granger. It was being cruel to _me_."

Shaking her head, Hermione reached down and took his homework off his desk and added it to the growing pile of papers with hers resting on top. As she continued on towards the waiting Professor, she looked at Draco's paper. Something about it was tugging at her mind. It looked…_familiar_. Where had she seen his hand writing before?

She was in the same year as him, and had seen his handwriting several times, of course she had seen it before, so why was it bothering her?

_**CRASH!**_

A dozen dozing students in the front row were snapped out of their drowsy reverie by a big, dark owl flying straight through the wide windows into the classroom. Hermione was likewise shocked out of her musings. Her pen pal's owl was so desperate to get to her that it would break through a window? Glass shards rained down on Professor Binn's desk and the desks of students in the first row.

Embarrassed, Hermione snatched the letter from her owl and waved her wand at the hole in the wall where glass had been moments before. Glass pieces rose and flocked like birds to their previous position as a window. Thrusting the paper in her pocket, she hurried to her seat.

The class ended without further incident.

That evening, Hermione sighed and sat down on her bed, trumpet in hand. She had read the letter between classes. It was mostly on music-Her pen pal had suggested plans on how they could meet for the trumpet lessons. They had suggested the owlery, where they would be mostly undisturbed, and they could both easily access. There was also some feedback on her song-Her pen pal had liked it a lot. They had sent back a second sheet of paper, titled 'Pavane, other.' He had added a second part for someone playing it on the piano or other instrument on which you could play more than one note. It had chords and notes little flurries of notes that would enhance the piece. She would try it out on her harp.

Rising, she headed over to the other side of the room to retrieve the large instrument, bringing it over to her bed side. Plucking the stings slowly, trying to read both the familiar sheet of paper and the newer, unfamiliar piece. It really did sound very nice-her pen pal was a musical genius. They had sent her many compositions, and every single one was good. In a folder attached by a string to her trumpet case contained all of these compositions, along with other favorite pieces of hers that she brought from home after her trip home for Christmas vacation.

Maybe when she taught them how to play the trumpet, they could give her some tips on how to compose.

At the very end of the letter was the usual quip about her being nosy regarding kiwis.

Something was catching her mind about the letter, though. The handwriting was familiar, yes, but something about it kept grabbing her mind.

Placing the letter on the bed, she picked up her trumpet, holding it to her mouth and doing a few warm-ups. The bed dipped a little when she sat down

Then, it hit her like a brick on the head.

Where she had seen Draco's handwriting before.

The handwriting on the letter grabbing her attention.

Her trumpet fell with a muted _thud_ on the covers of her bed.

**Please Review!**

**Thankyou to Star-Of-Hearts for betaing this!**


	18. Familiar, part two

**Disclaimer: I own nothing!**

**A/N-Yes, this is the previous chapter from Draco's point of view. So you may recognize some scenes from last chapter.**

Potions _used_ to be Draco Malfoy's favorite class.

That was before he gained a firebird that followed him like a second, much more troublesome shadow. No matter where or when he turned around, it was there. Jumping on his shoulders when it got tired of walking. Accepting affection from students in the hallways. Demanding affection from Draco. (Which it never got.)

Right now, it was trying to drink from Draco's cauldron.

"Stupid bird, you can't drink that!"

It just looked at him with questioning, too-innocent eyes, then dipped its head and continued to lap at the potion. Malfoy lashed out his hand, sending the bird toppling off the desk onto the floor at his feet. The girl next to him glared. "How dare you treat it that way?"

"It was drinking my assignment!"

Yep. Potions _used_ to be his favorite class. Right up until he got this darn bird.

Why did the golden peacock get so much attention, anyhow? Sure, it was pretty, but it wasn't anything spectacular. Most students must like it because it's new and shiny, he concluded. Its popularity would wear off eventually.

But that couldn't explain it all away. Even the teachers were fascinated. And the Ravenclaws in particular didn't seem to care what it looked like. They kept going on about how it was special and magical, and how few had succeeded in studying it. That evening he intended on paying a visit to the library to get a book on his troublesome shadow. There had to be a way to get it to go away.

When class finally let out, Draco Malfoy was the first out of the room. Not that he was in a hurry to get to History of Magic, but that he was hurrying to someplace where the Firebird might be less of a pain, or at least he could direct his attention to it instead of the lesson.

Blaise Zabini strolled leisurely alongside him. Draco pondered this-It used to be that Crabbe and Goyle would be the ones at his side. Ever since he had found intelligent conversation in the form of his pen pal, he had spent less time with his personal brute squad. For that matter, he had been terrorizing younger years less often. That one was a harder reason to pin point, but that also had something to do with his pen pal. Perhaps he'd look over old letters after classes that night. He might find something that he couldn't remember right that moment.

"Have you received any mixed blessings yet?"

Snapped out of his thinking, Draco turned to Blaise. "No. I don't really think my luck is going to change. That whole 'brings both good luck and bad luck' spiel must be just superstition."

"If that's what you think. By the way, do you know who your pen pal is yet?"

"No, we're not allowed to tell or ask."

Blaise smirked. "And here I thought you were a Slytherin through and through. Since when did rules like that apply to us? Besides, we're not the only ones. It was one of the flaws in the assignment. Kids are just too curious."

"Alright then, who's your pen pal?"

"You're not going to believe this. I probably should have caught on faster, what with her out-there comments and the fact that she sent me cut-outs from the Quibbler, but it still took more than that for me to find out. I feel so thick!"

As Draco listened, he filed away this conversation for later reference. Internally smirking, he realized he would probably have the same thing to say after he went to those trumpet lessons and found out who his pen pal was. "I feel so thick!" Yep, that would most likely be his line in the near future. Unless he got lucky and the Gryffindor girl he was writing to was someone obscure that he had never heard of or met before.

"Draco, were you at the last Quidditch game?"

"No, it was Ravenclaw vs. Hufflepuff, for one thing, and for another I was in the hospital wing with an injury that didn't really merit a stay." Yep-darn Weasley's owl for knocking him into the lake.

"Well then, you missed it. I think this was how the teachers finally caught on that students were finding out who their pen pals were. My pen pal was _Luna Lovegood._ Can you believe it? Of all people in this school, I got Loony Lovegood. She was the commentator for the match, and at the very end, when everyone was leaving, she said loud and clear 'I would like to make a personal announcement. Blaise Zabini, you are my pen pal.' I was shocked. I have no idea at all how she figured it out, but she did."

"Well, that's Luna for you."

The two parted ways soon after. Draco couldn't help but speculate on what a scene Luna's announcement would have caused. She probably had the microphone snatched from her immediately.

The Firebird, which had been conveniently quiet while Blaise was talking, made itself known as he continued on to History of Magic. Draco had never seen it fly before, but apparently it could. It flew fast and low into the History of Magic classroom, knocking over a few piles of books, before screeching to a halt at Draco's desk.

Which was instantly surrounded by imprssed students.

Sighing, Draco continued to his desk. With so many people crowded around his seat, he had to push people out of the way in order to sit down. Once in his seat, he glared at the students who surrounded him like a prison wall, and they quickly scattered like a flock of pigeons whose perch was disturbed.

Good to know he could still get a message across with a glare despite his recent decline in pushing people around.

Normally, Draco used this class to catch up on sleep. Unfortunately, he couldn't leave the golden peacock unattended. It could be annoying just _sitting there_. It had a huge train of feathers on its rear end, just like a peacock. There was not enough room at Draco's desk for all of these long, bright, sneeze-inducing feathers. They were in his face at all times.

The thing had an almost magical ability to do precisely what Draco didn't want it to do. It tried to drink from his inkwell, just like it had in potions. It must have a fetish for unhealthy drinks. And it was because of this that his new robes were stained with ink-clumsy bird.

During his ordeal with the Firebird, Professor Binns had called for homework. Seeing everyone else reaching for theirs in a half-asleep daze, he quickly pulled out the piece of paper, then returned to dealing with the golden peacock. Aiming his wand at it, he shoved it against the wall and muttered a charm. Ropes appeared around the Firebird's midsection, and tightened. Draco smirked-problem temporarily solved. Though he might have to cast a silencing charm-the bird protested with the volume of a Quidditch commentator.

"You know, that's probably animal cruelty."

He turned to see Hermione Granger, collecting homework.

"I don't care, Granger. It was being cruel to _me_."

Granger shook her head and picked up his homework, glanced at it, then added it to the bottom of the pile of papers she was carrying. Hers rested like a Christmas tree star on top of the pile-which was why Draco saw her handwriting.

Odd-it seemed _familiar_ somehow. Where had he seen that before? And why did he get the sense that it was the wrong color? Of course she could do her assignment in black ink-what other color would it be?

She continued down the isle and Draco pushed all thoughts of her handwriting out of his head. It was probably nothing.

However, about thirty seconds later, Draco found his familiar feeling about her handwriting was not just nothing.

As she was bringing the stack of papers up to Professor Binns' desk, a shadow appeared outside the window. It loomed closer as she set the papers down on the Professor's desk. Draco recognized this particular shadow. He would recognize it anywhere as the owl he used to send letters to his pen pal. Granger turned and headed for her seat. As she did, his owl broke through the window, sending glass shards showering over the first row like confetti.

Hermione turned and saw the owl. It flew over to her and she snatched the letter it carried. The owl turned and left. Looking embarrassed, Hermione waved her wand at the window, fixing it, before returning to her seat with the letter in her pocket.

The firebird, still pinned to the wall, shrieked in Draco's ear. Draco whipped around to look at it, eyes wide.

What was it Granger had said to him in the Forbidden Forest when they had stumbled upon the golden peacock in question?

_"Don't worry-it's just a Firebird."_

_"It's not dangerous, is it?"_

_"Don't worry-it's just a Firebird. You know, a zhar-ptitsa."_

_"Granger, if I didn't know the common name, why in the world would I know the scientific name?"_

_"Russian in origin, glows, said to bring both luck and doom?"_

It couldn't be.

It had to be.

**Please Review!**

**Yes, unfortunately this chapter is un-beta'd. I got so many reviews asking for quick updates that I decided to take the quick route and not Beta. I'm sorry for any spelling or grammatical errors I might have made because of this. **


	19. Dreams and Nightmares

**Disclaimer: I own nothing**

No.

No, it couldn't be.

Draco Malfoy could not be her pen pal.

Hermione Granger's genius mind was frozen, unable to get past her revelation.

Unable to think of anything but her discovery of her pen pal's identity. Her trumpet lay on her bed, icy metal resting against her knee. It was evening, the first of the stars just beginning to light up the sky like billions of candles. Other students slept soundly around her, light snores punctuating the silence every once in a while.

She couldn't sleep. Her thoughts chased each other around her head like off leash dogs. Pampered, blonde prince ferret was her pen pal. What had she told him? What had she told the Pureblood bully about herself? Her mind drew a blank. She had sent too many letters to remember the contents of each one. But she had to know. What did he know about her?

For whatever he knew, as soon as he discovered who she was, he would use that information to taunt her. It wouldn't be just Mudblood anymore, she could be sure of that.

And he would discover her identity. All those times she had read those letters, she had always known she was talking to someone smart. Someone who noticed things.

Holding her head in her hands, Hermione sank to her bed, trumpet still at her feet. Perhaps if she could remember that first letter, it would be a start. What had she said about herself the first time?

Perhaps she had said something about poetry…UGH! She was drawing a blank.

Was there anywhere she had written this all down? Did she have any old drafts, parts of the letters where she had spilled ink, or messed up somehow? Rising from bed, Hermione strode over to her bag, which sat on a chair by the fire. Flicking through her old pieces of paper, she muttered to herself.

"Would I have kept the drafts? I must have. It's not like there's a recycling bin at every corner in Hogwarts... Ah ha!" There they were-drafts with spilled ink, sentences that didn't work right together. Drafts she had thrust into her bag, to be forgotten about. The reject pieces of paper, littering her bag like autumn leaves.

Pulling out the bunch, she returned to bed. Pulling one off the top of the stack, she began reading.

It just so happened to be her first one. She hadn't said much in that one-mostly questions. She had said, though, that she enjoyed Macbeth, by Shakespeare. She had asked if he had any siblings. '_Do you have any siblings? If so, do they have any annoying habits? I have a little sister who, after a shower, always wrings out her hair on the floor. Sometimes water gets on the wood floor at the top of the stairs_.'

So he knew she had a sister, and that she liked Shakespeare. Anything else? Oh! Right there at the bottom-It had snowed at the time, and she had asked about what he liked to do in the snow! She had said she liked to make forts and misshapen snowmen. She had mentioned 'Calvin and Hobbs-' Malfoy must know she was Muggleborn, even if he hadn't figured out precisely who she was yet!

But, if that was true, then why did he talk to her? Didn't Malfoy treat people whose blood was 'less pure' than his like dirt?

Shaking her head, she continued to the next letter. This one looked like it might have been her third.

Glancing over it, it appeared she had told him her favorite song was Pavane. And once again, she had let it slip that she was Muggleborn! '_My favorite song is Pavane- you've probably never heard it. It is beautiful and sad. It brings tears to my eyes every time. The first time I heard it was when my band director handed it out to me- we were going to play it at a concert. (At Muggle schools, you can take a class specifically for playing music.)_'

Hermione's hands shook. Finally, something about her Draco could use. He knew she loved this song. Being the bully he was, he could probably use this against her somehow.

She had to keep reading. She had to know what was in store for her come the day Draco Malfoy learned who he had been writing to.

She had said she played tennis and lacrosse-Muggle sports! How many times had she let that particular piece of information slip? She had said her favorite class was herbology, and then said something about flowers and how they smelled. Could he use that against her? Oh, she was being paranoid. What was he going to do, stop her in the hall and give her flowers stolen from the Herbology room?

Mancala-another thing he knew she liked. But what good would that do him? He probably hadn't even heard of the game before she had mentioned it. Hermione began to calm down. While she didn't stop analyzing what he could and couldn't use against her, her heartbeat did slow to a normal speed.

Ah and here was an interesting paragraph-owls. They had both noticed their odd behavior. As she had thought, Draco noticed things, especially the obvious. He had to know who she was by now. If not, then it would be soon.

She had said classical was her favorite genre, followed closely by jazz. That she didn't know how he could use against her. She had said she played trumpet and harp. That was what had led to him asking for lessons-Oh! She had to teach him how to play trumpet! She had agreed to that!

OH GOD OH NO OH GOD OH NO OH GOD!

She had to teach _Draco Malfoy_ how to play trumpet. She was going to meet _Draco Malfoy_ eventually, and was going to try and teach that arrogant prick to play trumpet! She was going to have to be in the same room with him for who knows how long!

To make matters worse, she couldn't just never learn a spell to summon another trumpet for him to play on-she already had a second one. Yesterday she had run into Dobby in the hallways, and he had solved her problem.

_"Dobby!"_

_"Miss Hermione! It is good to see Miss Hermione! Can Dobby do anything for Miss Hermione?"_

_"No, I was just headed for the library- I need to figure out how to summon an instrument like you did."_

_"Why does Miss Hermione want to summon an instrument?"_

_"I'm going to meet with my pen pal-you know the assignment the school board came up with?" Dobby nodded vigorously, the expression on his face like he was listening to a queen delivering an important message-absolute concentration, all of his attention on Hermione. "So, I'm going to meet my pen pal, and was going to teach them to play trumpet. But, there's only one trumpet between the two of us."_

_"Why didn't Miss Hermione say so? Dobby can give Miss Hermione a trumpet!" _

_He had snapped his fingers just like he had when he summoned the piano. Instead of a piano, this time a trumpet appeared in his hands. He handed it to Hermione and bowed. _

_"Is this what Miss Hermione wanted?" Eyes wide, Dobby had thrust the trumpet into her hands, eager to see that he had done right by "Miss Hermione."_

_"Thank you Dobby!" _

Now, somewhere under the four-poster bed she lay on was a never-before-used trumpet, just waiting for her to reply to her pen pal and tell him that she had a second trumpet.

Sighing, she returned to her letters. It didn't look like there was much he could use, but then again, no one could bully verbally like prince ferret. Just knowing that he knew would be a strain- she didn't want him to know about her life! It wasn't like she knew anything about his!

Wait a second-could she truly say she knew nothing of his life?

She had saved her drafts-had she saved her pen pal's letters?

Hermione almost got up. Unfortunately, she had noticed the clock on her bedside table. It was way too late for her to be up. Fears assuaged, perhaps she could sleep some more. She could look through those letters in the morning.

Hermione did not sleep peacefully-her dreams were invaded with images of Malfoy, smirking, taunting her. Sentences from old letters spewed from his lips, twisted to taunt her.

These images slowly began to fade. Dream-Hermione was puzzled- what was happening? The images were shifting, growing softer. The scenery changed. They were in an empty classroom, him sitting at the piano and her on a stool with her trumpet. They were playing Pavane. This was how she had imagined her face-to-face meeting of her pen pal would go, before her revelation that evening. It was a peaceful image that lingered with her as she began to drift into consciousness.

Slowly rising from bed, Hermione looked outside. Now really, she shouldn't have been all that surprised. It had been a very cold winter, and it was still only early February. Still, she had gotten used to the nice weather. Frost had crept over the ground like ivy over night, and there had been the lightest of dustings of snow.

The clock beside her read 5:45-she still had about an hour before she should even think about getting dressed and ready for classes. Lying back on her pillow, she gazed at the flickering fire already burning on the hearth without really seeing it, a slight frown on her lips. Waking up from her dreams meant she had to begin the task of reading through all the letters Draco had sent her.

In her sleep she had kicked the stack of papers off her bed. Leaning down to pick them up, her frown deepened. Old letters that she had been so happy to get now had a rather nasty light shone on them, knowing the words were Malfoy's. She had been happy to receive these before. Now, she wanted to burn them in the dead of night.

The second paragraph of his first letter was rotten. It was standoffish, cold, and rude. He either deflected her questions or told her the question was stupid. The only thing he had told her about himself here was that daffodils were his favorite flower, he had no siblings, and his favorite season was summer. If she read between the lines, she could also tell that he was lazy and rude.

Surprisingly enough, after those opening two paragraphs, the whole tone of the letter changed. Almost like a different person was writing it.

'_Do you look at the sky a lot? I do. I always do. I like to know what emotion the sky is showing at any given point in time. Is it happy and sunny? Or angry and thundering? It never fails to fascinate me. _

_What is it like in your House? How do younger years react to you? What kind of jokes do people tell and pull on each other? How do you celebrate after you win a Quidditch game? What is it like? You don't have to tell me. I just sometimes wonder. _

_What did you name your owl?_

_What is your favorite place to be? Once again, you don't have to tell me, it makes no difference if I do or don't know. Once again, I just wonder. Do people pick their favorite places in similar ways? It seems a little unlikely, seeing as there is a wide variety of favorite places, each different, but what if each was picked for a similar reason? What if our special places are all places where we feel safe? Pardon me. I shouldn't ramble on.' _

Here, he had asked her some honest, good questions, questions with depth. Hermione's eyebrows knitted together. The Draco Malfoy she knew could not have written these verses. He wouldn't have cared enough. He wouldn't have cared what a Mudblood had to say. He would have retained the tone he started the letter with.

Reading this first letter brought something else to her attention. These letters had affected her. Words written by none other than prince ferret had affected Hermione Granger. Ever since the letters had begun, she had looked at the sky more often. What other ways had the letters affected her in?

The second letter was where the topic of music crept in. Hermione though about this-had they honestly started that topic so soon?

Working her way through the letters, Hermione began to find herself forgetting that this was _Malfoy_. The words became that of her pen pal again.

Nonsense. Her pen pal was someone she could confide in. Someone she could talk to about music, a topic Ron and Harry always tuned out in favor of a Quidditch discussion. But this person was also Malfoy…

Groaning in frustration, Hermione banged her forehead against the headboard of her bed.

Somehow, she thought of Draco and her pen pal as two separate people with their own personalities and voices. And then there was the added dread of teaching him hanging like a sword above her head. She threw her head against the headboard again.

She didn't want to think of Draco as a _person_ with _feelings_. She wanted to think of him as an evil prick that strutted over to her and called her a Mudblood. However, weeks of talking to him (though she didn't know it), thinking he did in fact have feelings, couldn't be reversed so easily. Especially since her last letter from him.

Her robes lay draped over a chair by the hearth. Rising from her bed, Hermione slowly walked over, pulling the latest letter from the pockets.

It was mostly on music. He had included the addition to Pavane. Pity, Hermione thought unconsciously-now that I know he wrote it I probably won't play it again. It really was pretty. However, the last paragraph was on a topic related only loosely to music.

He had been telling her about the first time he had heard Beethoven play. He had been four, and his mother had asked him to water the flowers that lined the path to the back door. The house elves were all busy helping his mother cook and prepare for guests she would be receiving for afternoon tea. She had enchanted the air around that part of the garden to play music-classical, of course-for her son while he worked. It was the same charm he used during tests to relieve stress.

Eager to please his mother, he had done as thorough a job as he could before telling her he was done. He had been so pleased with himself. His mother had said to water everything, and he was sure he had done it better than the house elves could any day, that he hadn't missed a thing.

His mother had allowed herself to be dragged out to see. The blissful smile on her face at the happiness clear on her son's face slipped when she saw the garden. Yes, he had been thorough. He had watered _everything_. Including the weeds, and the benches, and the statues.

Well, he had been four at the time, so you had to give him some leeway. But still, it was a laughable story. The kind of story Draco would rather die than tell. Or at least she had thought…

Perhaps her assessment was wrong.

Her assessment couldn't be wrong. This was _Malfoy_ they were talking about.

But he seemed so, so-_kind_ in his letters…

Ugh. This was too much to think about. And she still would have to give him lessons. Before, she had been looking forward to these lessons, to having an intelligent conversation with her pen pal. Now, she wasn't sure. She wanted to talk to letter-Draco. She wanted nothing to do with real-Draco.

Maybe…Maybe she could just see. An idea dawned on the Gryffindor. Draco didn't _know _she knew.

Draco didn't know she knew.

And if she was lucky, he didn't know who she was yet.

Hermione slowly smiled.

She could tell him about her newly acquired second trumpet, and where to meet her. He would come expecting his pen pal (however he imagined her). When he saw that it was her, if he was his normal prat-self, he would say something nasty and leave. Then, teaching him wouldn't be a problem! If he was willing to change his behavior and treat her like he did through the letters, she would teach him. Her problems were solved!

Smiling, Hermione began to get dressed, and to compose her reply.

Time would tell if there truly was more to Draco than pampered ferret.

**Please Review!**

**Now, for an explanation: So, several of you probably got an alert telling you I'd updated. So, the problem is, my house has two computers. One is the faster, newer one. This one also happens to have some sort of virus or something, and hates FanFiction. It refuses to let me update on it, to review, to see other people's favorite stories, to see my story stats, and do many other things. Then, there is my parent's computer, which is slower and grouchier, but FanFiction works on that one. So, I was updating one of my other stories, and, being the grouch it is, this computer messed up, and brought me to the wrong update page, and I put the wrong chapter on the wrong story. Realizing this, I quickly deleted the chapter and re-posted it on the correct story. Sorry about that!**

**Also! I can say for sure that I will not have internet access for all of August (I'm going on a trip). So I'm trying to wrap this up before then. If I don't, then don't expect another update before September. I could write up a hundred chapters, but not a one will get posted in August. Because of this rush, I probably won't beta the remaining, what, three chapters? Just apologizing in advance. **

**Sorry!**


	20. Revelations over Waffles

**Disclaimer-I own nothing!**

**Sorry, but you'll probably recognize some of this-I needed Draco to have a chapter similar to the last one. They both need to go through the process of deciding to cautiously see if the other is really all that bad. **

**Sorry!**

It was six thirty in the morning, and the light was only just now streaming through the light-green curtains. The room was quiet; with the only slight noise was the wind like the distant howling of a wolf. Many students had already awoken, and were conjuring in the common room.

Draco Malfoy sat with a scowl on his face on his green-and-silver bedspread, the Firebird lying on his lap. Two stacks of several letters lay in front of him. These were the reasons behind his scowl.

Hermione Granger _could not_ be his pen pal.

However, he could not deny that it had been his owl that had shot like a bullet through the window of the History of Magic classroom, and flown straight to that Mudblood. She had pocketed his letter.

Besides, the pairing was supposed to random, to a certain extent. The point of the exercise had been to get on speaking terms with students from other houses, so of course he would be paired with someone he would normally speak nothing but insults to.

He understood how it could happen. He just didn't want believe it.

Why her?

The Firebird on his lap snored lightly, shifting its weight. Draco glared at the bird-He was convinced this dumb bird was the reason behind his rotten luck. 'Both good and bad luck-' well, the second part was right. This was the worst luck he could have. There was nothing good about it.

He had meant to start reading through these letters, looking for any slip-ups he might have made, what Hermione knew. That was the stack on his left. The one on his right was the ones she had sent him.

But it was hard to make himself do it.

He didn't really want to know what he had said that he shouldn't have. He didn't really want to know what facts the entirety of Gryffindor house would soon be throwing in his face with a laugh. Those facts were personal-he never should have inked them. But he had-he had sent out those stories and snippets like messages in a bottle, not knowing that it was _Granger_ who was reading them. Of course she would tell everyone, once she knew who he was.

Why in the world wouldn't she?

Reaching forward slowly, hesitantly, he reached for the letter at the top of the pile Hermione had sent and brought the page to his face. The pages felt as heavy somehow-he was reluctant to even hold them.

It wasn't her first one, but one of the earlier ones. Apparently he had asked about her house.

_My house is like a home, but with more siblings and no parents. The younger kids are welcomed, and given tours. Everyone has an older sibling in their house, or is friends with someone who does, or is friends with someone who is friends with someone who does. Anyway, there is always someone for them to go to with questions. Also, we sometimes can't help our selves, and show off a little. We do things like make faces appear in the fire, or summon pumpkin juice. As for jokes, our jokes are usually based on recent events. For instance, if something went humorously wrong in Professor Flitwicks's class, we joke about that. We also tend to make jokes about Professor Snape-He is just so bat-like, and I think he has yet to wash his hair for the first time. Some of the jokes we play on each other are usually played by two friends of mine-they love to enchant sweets to do things, like make you vomit or give you a nose bleed, or vastly increase the size of your tongue. They sell their stuff, so we usually use their things to play pranks. When we win a Quidditch, we throw an unnecessarily large, loud, wild party that lasts almost all night long. Put a bunch of hipped-up kids, butterbeer, a lot of sugary food, charms used for entertainment, and an excuse to party together, and you can imagine the result. _

'Two friends of mine-they love to enchant sweets to do things, like make you vomit or give you a nose bleed, or vastly increase the size of your tongue'-how could he have possibly missed that? Obviously it was Fred and George. Which house liked Snape the least? Gryffindor, of course!

Also, this reminded him of something. On the way to that fateful class during which he had learned the identity of his pen pal, he had wondered why he had stopped bullying younger years. He had thought it was maybe something his pen pal had said. Well, it was all right there. The way she described her House, and how the younger students could go to older students for advice and help-that must have stayed with him. He couldn't help but wish his house was more like that.

He had messed up big time. There was no way he could fix this.

What would he tell his mother?

_Keep up your image_. He had disregarded her warning, wanting to reach out to someone whose intellect matched his own, who answered his questions honestly. He had continued to speak in an un-Malfoy-like manor. And now he was left with a real mess. His mother had been right.

Draco reached out for another letter, but his fingers never reached it. The Firebird had awoken on his lap, and was hungry. Apparently, Hermione's letters counted as food.

"Stupid bird! Give that back!" Draco grabbed the head, holding it like a watermelon, ripping the pages out of the bird's mouth.

"Ugh."

The pages had been cut, leaving jagged edges like ripped leaves. Saliva had smeared the words into hopeless blobs on ink, and multi-page letters were out of order and mixed up with the other letters. There was nothing for it. He couldn't read these.

The Firebird gazed at him with a questioning and slightly hurt eyes, like a kicked puppy. It seemed to be saying 'why did you take away my delicious food? What did I do?"

Oh well. It was time to get down to the Great Hall anyways.

The Firebird followed him like a second shadow down the stairs and through the corridors to the Great Hall, despite Draco's repeated attempts to push it away or lock it in the dormitory. One frowning and one smiling, the pair entered the Great Hall and headed to the Slytherin table. He glared daggers at anyone who reached out to pet the Firebird as he sat down next to Blaise Zabini and forked waffles onto his plate.

Glancing over at his tablemate, he saw Blaise leaning over the table, quill clutched tightly in his hand, writing a letter. Draco leaned over, stretching his head to read over Zabini's shoulder. With his attention on Zabini, the Firebird leaned the other way in order to get strokes and attention from other students.

"You're still writing to Loony Lovegood?"

"Yeah-why shouldn't I? She has some pretty good ideas. Her letters brighten my day-You can never expect what she'll say next. Oh, by the way, did you find out who you're pen pal was yet?"

Draco glowered at the table. "Hermione Granger."

"Well great, someone who can match your mind. It could have been worse."

That was not the reaction he had expected at all. "What do you mean?"

"Well, Crabbe and Goyle really aren't much for conversation. Granger at least has a vocabulary worthy of someone her age, and knows enough about enough interesting topics to have an intelligible conversation. And listening to her might actually improve your Muggle Studies grade."

Draco was silent, and Blaise turned away to join in another conversation.

Did Blaise have a point? It was true-ever since he had started writing to his shrewd mystery person, he'd spent less time with his personal brute squad. Was this a good thing? On the topic of music, at least, he had managed to have a deep conversation that he got something out of, as opposed to his conversations on music with the two goons. Those conversations usually ended pretty quickly-the two had little knowledge of music. 'Who's Tchaicovsky?' What kind of a question was that? Everyone knew him, he wrote the Nutcracker and Swan lake for heaven's sake!

Glancing over at Gryffindor table, he spotted her bushy, standout reddish-brown hair, sitting with her back to him, talking animatedly to Ginny Weasley. She laughed at something the Weaslelette had said, shaking and rocking in her seat like an earthquake was taking place under her seat.

It was hard to associate her with her the person behind the words he so looked forward to. But not impossible.

He was distracted from his thoughts when the Firebird lunged across the table like an exited dog to lap at some spilled syrup. Hauling the bird back to the patch of table next to him, Draco apologized to the poor little boy who had spilled the syrup.

There was another thing he wouldn't have done before he started writing these letters. Apologizing to a boy who spilled syrup.

Besides conversation, did he get anything else from these letters? His new-found politeness to younger students? Yes, that was probably Hermione's doing.

How else had she changed him?

Well, he was always happy to get these letters. That had to be worth something, right?

His mother had said to keep up his image. The thing was, when he'd let his mask slip through his pen, he'd actually been happier. Opening up had had benefits-he had grown to trust someone outside his family with stories from his childhood, personal opinions, and ideas. It was nice to talk to someone about this, rather than just mulling it over for days without any outside input. And, surprisingly, outside input had improved his ideas, helped to refine them.

He couldn't really bring himself to regret those actions.

How odd. Something he was told would ruin him made him happy.

Lifting his knife, he began to cut his waffles, keeping an eye on the firebird.

Hermione's input didn't just help his ideas- it was something he looked forward to. He _wanted_ to hear what she had to say. This thought startled him-it was completely out of the blue. His knife slipped, not quite missing his fingers. Cursing at the line of blood like the horizon at sunset appearing on his thumb, he whipped out his wand and healed cut.

He wanted to hear what she had to say.

Her input helped his ideas.

She offered intelligent conversation few others could.

She had enough knowledge of music to match his.

He had been happier letting his mask slip.

He had trusted her with personal facts, and, for some reason, he didn't really regret it.

_What was wrong with him_?

Could it be that this _wasn't_ a disaster?

Maybe. Possibly.

He'd think about it later. For now, he would settle for keeping his unwanted pet out of the food. The little thief was currently trying to steal some the strawberries off a little girl's plate.

"Sorry about that! Hey, you, peacock! Cut it out, will you?"

The 'golden peacock' cocked his head to one side, then tried to push Draco out of his way so he could reach the bowl of strawberries sitting like a red target dot on table. Darn bird! How could he convince it to leave the strawberries alone?

Grabbing a fistful of strawberries, Draco snagged the troublesome bird's head and stuffed the berries down its throat, all at once. The Firebird gagged, and then fell on the floor coughing them all out of its throat.

The strawberries remained untouched by the bird for the remainder of breakfast.

Later, when he was alone after breakfast at the lake and no one would come and disturb him until it was time for class; a beautiful, familiar owl soared right into him. He had had no warning, and there was a second where he was clawing at the air and thought he might go flying again into the lake. It was a close call.

After the initial wave of irritation, Draco was thrilled to see the owl. His pen pal had replied! No, Hermione had replied. Why did he still think of her as his pen pal?

Because he associated Hermione with a know-it-all Mudblood, and his pen pal with an intelligent, trusted, interesting person, that's why.

His expression might have reflected his happiness or his confusion-he didn't really know or care. He was exited to hear what his pen pal had to say-there it was again, 'his pen pal.'

Besides all this, some part of his brain registered how happy he was to hear from Hermione, and added this as more proof to back his realizations at the breakfast table. Could it be that getting to know Hermione and letting her get to know him was no a bad thing? Could it be that he was happy to talk to her, so long as she didn't know it was him?

Pulling the letter from the envelope, he began to read the first paragraph. Then read it again. Then again.

_Guess what? I have managed to get a hold of a second trumpet! We can meet by the lake tomorrow night, at seven o'clock, if that's alright. Send me an owl if you already have arrangements. I'm flexible. _

Trumpet lessons! He'd forgotten! Hermione had agreed to teach him to play trumpet! And if she had sent this yesterday, wouldn't the lessons scheduled for tomorrow be tonight?

But, would she still be willing to teach him when she realized who he was? He could picture it now-she saw him come down to the lake. Realization dawned on her face that he was her pen pal, followed by a wave of revoltion that she had to teach him. Before he could open his mouth she turned away, swept up her music and trumpet and began to pace her way back to the castle, leaving him with just the stars and some stray pieces of music that had slipped from her grasp. No, he didn't think he could take it if that happened.

But…

He really did want to learn how to play, and he really did want to meet Hermione and talk to her face to face. And she was in Gryffindor-weren't Gryffindors supposed to be all loyal and chivalrous to everyone? Perhaps she would teach him despite her dislike of him-nah, not likely.

Well, what did he loose if he showed up? His pride, that's all. (He ignored the voice in the back of his head saying he might loose more than that) What could he gain if he went? He would learn to play a new instrument, and he might be able to engage in interesting conversation with Hermione Granger, the smartest girl in school.

As he saw it, this was how he stood. Hermione didn't yet know he was her pen pal, though she soon would. Knowing her, she would be ready for anyone in school to show up at the lake. If she turned and left, oh well. It wasn't the end of the world. If she stayed, great!

He would let her decide were their unknown friendship stood.

**Please Review!**

**Sorry this came later than expected. I was volunteering at an art camp for 5-7 year olds and then 8-10 year olds from eight thirty A.M. to four thirty P.M. for the past three days. This really cut into my writing time. **

**Also, I'm sorry this story has been so boring so far. Not a lot really seems to happen. **


	21. By the lake

**Disclaimer: I own nothing! **

**Just a warning-some people may not understand the ending of this chapter. For those people, I would suggest reading the summary again. That may clear some things up.**

The lake was as still and undistorted as a mirror. The evening stars were just beginning to peek out into the black spinel sky. The jagged tree-line of the Forbidden Forest cut like a sharp stone against the horizon.

A lone figure stood by the lake, a trumpet in each hand.

Hermione glanced around again. He should have been here by now. Admittedly she had been a little early, but she had been here for at least ten minutes. She had set up two chairs and a table, which was cluttered with sheet music and a bowl. A magic light the size of her fist hung like a cocoon in the air above the table.

He couldn't have thought she meant tomorrow, could he? Maybe he was on the other side of the lake, looking for her. Maybe he ran into Filch, and had been sent back to his dormitories. Maybe he-

No, she was just worrying unnecessarily. Of course he would show. He just wasn't here yet. And if he didn't show, then she was off the hook, and could forget this entire pen pal assignment ever happened.

He should have been here by now.

She began to pace. Maybe he…

"Go away! I don't want you to come! Why can't you just sleep at the foot of the bed like a normal pet? No! You can't eat that, that's poisonous! Hey! Get off me! I'm _not_ carrying you! Ugh, you're getting dirt all over my robes. Dumb bird!"

Hermione's lips pulled up in a smile. So that was why he was late-that bird had slowed him up. She could see his silhouette getting closer, and the silhouette of his unwanted pet. When they reached the side of the lake, Draco lifted the bird and heaved it into the lake. There was a lot of splashing, and the silhouette of the bird emerged from the water, shaking all over Draco.

Finally, Malfoy made it to where Hermione stood, dripping wet. The first thing Hermione did was to aim her wand at him. Draco flinched, and tried to dodge, only to find that his robes were suddenly dry. He sighed-for a moment there he had thought she was going to hit him square in the face with something nasty that you weren't supposed to learn until the seventh year. Plopping down on the chair opposite of Hermione he gazed at her and her music.

"Nice spell."

"Yes, it is useful."

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, the two gauging each other's reactions warily.

"So, shall we start?"

"Sure, but first, one question. Well, more of an offer."

Draco's eyebrows creased-offer? Where was she going with this? Was she going to offer him a way out of their deal, thinking he didn't want to be here now that he knew who she was? Well, at least for the moment she seemed willing enough to teach him. For a moment there it had seemed she was going to curse him into oblivion, but she had just helped him out.

Hermione noted his reluctance. This whole thing was going good-he hadn't turned to leave; he hadn't called her a Mudblood-all in all, better than she could have hoped. But now he showed reluctance. Perhaps he was going to leave in a more polite way…

Before Draco could answer, the Firebird made a dive for the sheep music. Draco leapt out of the chair to tackle it, but Hermione beat him to it. She had had her wand at the ready in case Draco was to use a spell against her. Flicking her wand in the direction of the golden peacock, she muttered _petrificus totalus, _and it froze in mid air. Shoving it off t the side, she motioned with her hand to sit back down.

"That should help. Now, my offer." Lifting the bowl sitting on the table between them, she tilted it so Draco could see inside. "Kiwi?"

Hermione had been hoping that by offering him a bowl of peeled kiwi she could solve her urgent question of why he refused to answer her, and whether or not he did like kiwi. However, she was not prepared for his reaction.

Draco sprang out of his chair and backed away from the bowl in Hermione's hand like it was a blood-splattered knife. He had gone deathly pale.

"What? So you don't like them."

"Get rid of those!"

"Why? That's wasteful!"

"I'm allergic to citrus!"

Confusion flashed over Hermione's features for a second, then understanding, then laughter.

"What's so funny? Oh, so you _want_ me to die! I should have known!"

Shaking with laughter, Hermione managed to spit out, "No, no, that's not it. Malfoy, kiwi isn't a citrus fruit!"

Cautiously, Draco took a step forward. "What do you mean?"

"Kiwis are not citrus!"

So that's why he refused to answer, Hermione thought. He thought he was allergic to them. And no one had ever told him otherwise!

Slowly, he took a step forward. Then another step. Then, slightly fast now, another. Reaching out, he gingerly plucked one from the bowl with two fingers, obviously expecting to break out in rash. When his skin stayed the same, he brought it up to his face, examining it. Slowly, like a sloth bringing leaves to its mouth, he brought the emerald fruit to his lips and took a miniscule bite. Upon not dropping dead, he took a larger bite.

Hermione smirked to herself as Draco ate.

"So, what do you think?"

He paused before he answered. "Odd. It's strong, but not in a bad way. I like it."

Hermione offered him the bowl again. This time, the reception was much warmer.

Kiwi in hand, eating in silence, she watched Draco's facial expressions with interest. Curiosity was the most frequent.

He seemed willing enough to stay. Besides, if he thought he was allergic to kiwis, (which she would never have guessed) and didn't want to be there now that he knew she was his pen pal, wouldn't he have taken that opportunity to leave? He _seemed_ to want to stay despite his teacher…

The number of kiwis eventually dwindled and Draco reached for one of Hermione's trumpets. No sooner had he clasped the trumpet that Hermione's hand clamped down on his like a bear trap.

"Nope. That's not were we start. You probably won't even pick that trumpet up today."

"What are you talking about? I'm here to learn how to play the thing!"

"You won't be able to make a sound."

"And why not?"

"Because your facial muscles need to be in a certain position at all times while playing."

"What? Whatever for?"

"This isn't the piano-you play with your mouth."

"So? I just blow in the thing, right?"

"Not even close."

Reaching down, Hermione removed the mouthpiece from the trumpet like a bottle cap and handed it to him.

"Now, make a small hole with your lips…"

And so Hermione began to instruct Draco on how to play the trumpet. Draco stayed for the entire lesson. He kept waiting for Hermione to turn away in disgust, Kept waiting for her to say those dooming words. He enjoyed talking to her face to face and slowly but surely built up a friendship with her that was composed of more than just music, though the two still often talked about it. Hermione never left the lesson-she, rather like Draco, kept waiting for him to insult her blood and leave. She liked having a friend who was interested in music. She could never have discussions like this with Harry and Ron. And so she kept coming back, day after day, to work with him.

It started a little bit stiff, with both parties slightly suspicious of one another. But over time, their friendship blossomed. Harry and Ron were suspicious that she was meeting someone, but they never found out whom it was.

Draco and Hermione continued to send letters over the summer, and when school let back in the next year Hermione continued giving him lessons. This year, though, Draco returned the favor and taught her to play piano.

They began to explore topics outside of school. One of these topics was cooking.

It took some convincing on Hermione's part-Draco didn't really want to get anywhere near a stove- but eventually she got him on board. During the weekends they would go down to the kitchens and 'help' the house elves cook. They were often times more of a hindrance than a help, but not a one of the house elves ever tried to stop them. The two would bake pies and get flour all over the floor and berries all over their faces. They often times set something on fire.

They did eventually loose the Firebird-Hagrid returned from his trip, and the substitute professor was not needed. The Firebird and Hagrid took an instant liking to each other, and the Firebird began to sleep in Hagrid's hut, much to Draco's delight.

Ginny began to notice when Hermione and Draco always seemed to wind up being the last two without a partner, and so had to be paired together. She didn't say anything to Harry and Ron-instead, she just smiled and waited, watching to see how this played out.

They began spending their Hogsmead trips together. Hermione told Harry and Ron that she was with a close friend who was in desperate need of comradely good fellowship. They went to three Broomsticks together when bands came to play and listened together, commenting on their styles and quality.

Then, it happened. About half way through the year, up in the owlry during Draco's lessons, Draco leaned over and kissed Hermione. She was shocked, happy, and slapped him the instant their faces were no longer connected, and then kissed him again.

If one were to make a piece of music based off their life after this, it would be a varied piece with lots of bridges and crescendos, but would end on a light, happy note.

**Please Review!**

**Ok, there are a couple things I could do now:**

**1. I could end the story here and just write and epilogue or two. **

**2. I could delete that last part, and instead of just ending the story before August, put it on hiatus for August and continue it when I return. (In this case, I would actually write out that whole summary of what happened after and add a bunch more.) In this case, I would modify the summary so that 'story of how they met' part was gone. **

**3. I could end it here and write an epilogue or two and then write a sequel, which would basically be option number two, only with the story divided into two parts. **

**Tell me what you think!**


	22. Epilogue

**Disclaimer: I own nothing!**

It was the first dance Hogwarts had seen since the Yule Ball, and a current of excitement was running through the students. Speculation was flying about who was going with who, who wasn't going, and the like. Drama was to be expected.

It was also the night Draco and Hermione planned on finally spilling that they were together.

The Great Hall was decorated with frilly flowers and long, arching streamers. Candles floated above head-height, and the ceiling was enchanted to look like a clear, starry night. Tables full of sweats lined the sides of the massive room. Glitter was all over the place with no clear source. The bathrooms were full of girls applying last minute make-up and fixing their hair. The mirrors were smeared with make-up and lipstick. Hairbrushes were being passed around between friends, and it would probably be awhile before they were returned to their owners.

Clocks were glanced at, feet were tapped, and fingers were drummed, until finally, finally, the doors to the Great hall were opened. Students streamed in, hailing friends, eager to spend a night dancing and eating sweats well past their normally imposed bed time.

Off to one side, amidst the flowers and dancers that resembled flower petals swirled by the wind as they danced, stood Draco Malfoy. Alone.

Slytherin girls tittered between themselves in tight little groups not too far from him, but not so close as to seem that they were spying on and talking about him.

"He's all alone!"

"But he should have had no problem getting a date!"

"Why would he come if he wasn't coming with someone?"

"Well, if he isn't, he might still dance with someone."

Eventually, one Pansy Parkinson, after quite a bit of giggling and whispering behind her hand, worked up the courage to walk over to him.

"Draco! Fancy seeing you here! So, where's the lucky girl?"

Draco rolled his eyes internally at her transparent attempt to capture his interest. She obviously thought he was here alone.

"She's running a little late-she should be here soon." Pansy's face visibly fell at this.

Across the room, Ron, Luna and Harry stood next to each other, looking around for Hermione. Lavender Brown, Who was supposed to be here with Ron, had noticed a friend by a table of sweets and had gone over to talk. Ron was secretly hoping she stayed there for a while. Luna was here with Harry.

"I wonder where Hermione is." Luna wondered out loud, though she had more of an idea than perhaps the two boys did. "It's not like her to be late."

"Wonder who she's with." Ron said half to himself. Perhaps Hermione could think of a way to save him from the monster that was Lavender.

In fact, Hermione was standing just outside the heavy double doors to the Great Hall, waiting for the last of the students to trickle in.

Tonight was the night she and Draco were coming out. And who were they to pass up a chance for theatrics?

Hermione was dressed in a light, jadeite green dress with gold along the collar and sleeve lines and the bottom hem. A purple charoite stone in the shape of a music note on a thin gold chain snaked around her neck. A daffodil was tied into her hair.

When at last it seemed she would be the last to arrive, she stepped out of the shadows and entered the Great Hall. Ignoring the calls of "Hermione!" from Harry and Ron's general direction, she headed over to where Draco stood.

"Enjoying yourself?"

"Immensely."

Pansy's mouth could have touched the floor. All the tittering of the Slytherin girls abruptly stopped. Ron stopped calling to her and started marching over to where the two had begun to dance. Unfortunately, he tripped over the Firebird, which was napping by the table of sweets, having gorged itself on strawberries. Luna appeared to be the only one who wasn't in shock. But then again, she was Luna.

...

Narcissa Malfoy sat in the garden of Malfoy Manor, enjoying earl grey tea and the beautiful scents of the flowers that cloaked the air. It was warm and sunny, but not so bright that she had to squint. Music was playing somewhere in the house, and a mother bird with a nest somewhere in the garden was singing.

All was peaceful.

It had been a while since one of Draco's letters-they had been less frequent this year. She was under the impression he was learning a new instrument, but she wasn't quite sure which one, or who was teaching. She would have to look in to that.

Her peaceful moment was disrupted by the low, leaves-being-rustled-by-the-wind sound of house elves whispering to one another. Upon listening closer, she found that they seemed to be very exited. Perhaps she should listen in-what could they possibly be exited about?

"Did you hear about Master Draco?"

"Yes! Such a nice girl."

Mrs. Malfoy sat upright. They were _gossiping_ about _her son_. What was this about him and some girl?

"Yes, such a nice girl. Wonder when Master Draco will bring Hermione home."

"Oh, Master Draco won't any time soon. If Master Draco were, Mistress Narcissa would be having a fit about having a Mudblood in Malfoy Manor."

Narcissa's breath caught. They were talking about _her son_ and a _Mudblood_! Besides, Draco would have told her if he had gotten a girlfriend, wouldn't he? No, it had to be just house elf gossip.

Having assured herself, she lay back down in her chair and closed her eyes, trying to drive all unpleasant thoughts from her mind. It might have worked if her son's owl hadn't swooped in and hooted at her. Cracking one eye, she glared at the bird before reaching for the envelope. It was addressed to her, in Draco's handwriting.

With considerably more interest, she sat up and tore open the envelope, smiling. Her son had finally written back!

However, as she began to read, the smile slipped from her face.

The letter had only two sentences, eleven words: _I am in love with Hermione Granger. Thought you should know._

Luscious Malfoy heard a crash in the direction of the garden, and rushed over to see what had happened. He found his wife on the ground in a dead faint, a letter in her right hand. When he read the letter, he joined her.

**Please Review!**

**Yep, this is the last chapter-the choice most people seemed to want was for me to end it with an epilogue and to write a sequal after I return from my trip. So, in September, look out for a sequel! **

**UPDATE! THE SEQUEL IS NOW UP!**


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